


Taming the Fear

by Tasharene



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Complete, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tasharene/pseuds/Tasharene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reply to a somewhat longish and very specific prompt on the kinkmeme: </p><p>Fem!Hawke is a mage and Hadriana's lookalike. She's also hopelessly in love with Fenris. When they get to their first time sex, Fenris loses himself in memories and starts seeing Hadriana in place of Hawke... he reacts with extreme violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fenris

Hawke grabs his hand, unwilling to let him go, forcing him to stay, even against his will. When her soft skin touches his, the venom of her magic sends a stinging jolt of chill along the lyrium branded into his flesh. Anger, frustration and a touch of disappointment flare up along the markings at the intrusion and he shoves her against the wall, holding her there, enjoying the fact that she is too shocked to respond. To defend herself with her treacherous magic.

And then she makes that sound. A soft whimper. Needy, warm, so unlike the unpleasant touch of her mage fingers, and Fenris instantly feels ashamed of himself. Hawke wants him, wants to give herself to him, wants to be with _him_ \- an escaped slave, a broken elf with a disgusting, scarred body. His expression softens, he averts his eyes. Ashamed of his uncultured behavior. He tries to form words in his mind, words that would work as a yet another apology he owed her, but she doesn’t give him a chance.

There’s a smile creeping to her soft lips, like a slithering snake. It perches there and mocks him. A knowing, victorious smile that reaches up to her icy blue eyes and makes them glow with barely suppressed emotion. Lust and triumph are what Fenris sees sparkling in them... and his impending defeat, because Hawke doesn’t want to give herself to him. She wants to claim him for herself.

Once again disappointment rages through him in a cold wave of numbness, but she doesn’t notice, dragging him up the stairs, to the bedroom, her soft lips locked on his, making any coherent thinking impossible as she quickly and deftly strips them both of their clothing. Fenris hates his own body for betraying him so. For letting her affect it and make it respond to her every wish in a way that shows more than he has ever dared to admit to himself even.

Hawke purrs triumphantly when she pushes him down onto her lush bed. She moans as she lets her eyes feast on his pliant, naked form outlined by the firelight. Her palms glow softly with magic as she lets them roam all over her own body. Shamelessly, wantonly. He watches her for a moment, the hunger reflecting on her face eventually making him wince and turn his gaze away. She doesn’t say a single word then, but he can hear her bare feet on the floor. Approaching.

Deep inside him, something stirs; a memory he could swear was dead, crushed into oblivion by his armored fist. A nightmare that bled dry on the dusty floor of the slaver holding cave on the coast. He inhales sharply.

The mattress bends under the weight of Hawke’s body. The same body that is enticingly shapely, yet tall enough that he has always felt uneasy having to look slightly up to let their eyes meet. Fenris lets his eyelids fall as her fingers shamelessly trace the lyrium brands, sending wave after wave of dull pain straight to his heart. When she straddles his hips at last, her thighs hold him tight in place, and her face hovers just a breath away from his. Silky strands of pitch black hair brush against his cheeks, not quite tickling, but teasing, unnerving, making him shiver.

“Look at me, Fenris. _Look at me_.”

He does as she demands, and immediately drowns in the freezing ocean of her cobalt irises. The chill he feels at that frighteningly familiar. He finds himself gasping for breath, panicking, but she smiles at him, her breathing quickened, her stare rendering him both speechless and motionless.

Somewhere behind the treacherous arousal, Fenris feels anxiety creeping up his spine. Fear. Anger. The markings begin to glow once again but, straining himself so much that beads of sweat appear on his forehead, he manages to persuade himself that it’s just the past, that he needn’t worry, that it’s Hawke grinding herself against him impatiently.

“Hawke, I-” He tries to speak again, to say her name with all the affection and reverence she deserves from him after all she has done for him, but…

The woman lets out an amused chuckle. She mocks his clumsy attempt at showing emotions, and it hurts when she presses her lips to his, her tongue forcing itself into his mouth again, plundering, taking possession of his taste, of his breath, of _him_. There's no space left for free will, no chance for a thought that would be his own, no hope for equality between them.

It is then that he feels magic – her magic – stalking along the curved lines of lyrium burned into his skin, coiling deep inside his abdomen, forcing his body to arch upwards, towards her waiting, eager core. There is a low, pitiful moan hanging in the thick air between them and Fenris is ashamed to admit it has escaped his own throat, torn by her spell from that secret place somewhere inside his chest.

There’s a wave of white hot anger swelling in his mind and this time he sets it free, letting it sweep away any reason. When he opens his eyes again, he meets the icy stare, sees the dusky skin, pitch black hair and that smile... sarcastic, ridiculing, degrading.

With terrifying clarity, Fenris realizes that he should have burned the body. Or cut it into tiny pieces to scatter them outside for wild beasts to feast upon. He should have known better than to leave a magister’s corpse unattended, to let blood magic run its course inside her seemingly dead body and use the carnage around to restore her.

He blinks and there she is, claiming him and using her powers to control him.

This time he won’t allow it. Not again, not any more, not ever.

He snarls like the rabid wolf that he sometimes lets himself become, his marking flaring up as he pushes the woman off him, rolls her to her back and pins her to the bed.

He will make her pay. For every disgrace, for every laugh, for _everything_.

“Finally,” she says and wraps her legs around his hips, pulling him even closer, attempting to force him to obey once again.

“No.”

The first strike comes to him like a release. When his unphased fist connects with her soft, pliant flesh, eliciting a pained cry of shock from those insolent lips, he feels relief so great that it’s nearly overwhelming. He has finally managed to break the spell, he rebelled against a magister and now he can punish her at last.

For the very first time Fenris feels truly free.

With every blow he curses her name, his voice unrelenting like his hands. Every pained cry that escapes from her bloodied lips, he mercilessly silences with a list of crimes she has committed. Against him, against other slaves.

There is a faint flicker of hesitation when he realizes that she could easily stop him and crush his body with her magic. For some reason she has refused to do so, but that's her loss. He won't be fooled by any of her tricks, never again. Fenris easily blinks the doubts away when the woman under him starts sobbing and begging him to stop, crying out his name like a prayer to the Maker himself. He can only sneer with disgust at that. His pleas have never had any effect on her, why shouldn't he pay it all back to her in kind?

When the mage under him finally stops struggling and falls silent, he slowly drags himself off the cursed bed. Panting heavily, he gets dressed, putting on every single piece of his Tevinter slave armor like a trophy from the battle that he has just won. There is pride in him and self-respect, emotions he hasn’t known before.

Tossing one last look at the battered, bloodied body sprawled lifeless on top of tangled sheets, he can’t help a bitter smile.

“You won’t have me again, Hadriana. None of you will.”

He storms outside, rushing back to his decrepit mansion, because that is the place where he must wait for his master to show up and try to make him his pet again. Fenris knows the magister will come, and tonight he feels more than ready to face him. He feels invincible, the rush of victory still surging through him in tidal waves.

He doesn’t remember anything from his short run along Hightown streets - neither the guards giving him wary looks, nor the nobles getting out of his way with frantic shrieks. He doesn’t remember opening the entrance door or closing it, but once he is inside, something snaps in the darkest recesses of his mind, and he has to support himself against the cold wall, fighting for every single breath.

Memories. They cut him like the finest blades in a skilled rogue’s hands, they stab right through the heart, making him collapse to the floor and stay there, with his head clutched between his armored hands in a futile attempt to keep himself from falling apart.

Colors, smells, sounds. Names. So many of them. Too many. The past and the present, aligned in perfect clarity at last, making sense for the first time ever, for one blissful and horrifying moment letting him understand what he was and what he is, where he came from and what he has just done.

And then they are gone, all gone in a flash of red hot anger.

Fenris lets out a howl. He screams until his throat is sore. Until the cries turn into hoarse sobs at last. Curling up in the dirt where he belongs, he weeps like a lost child, the dark, hostile emptiness in his head more frightening than ever, now that he knows how it feels to have it filled with the past.

It is dawning when he wakes, shivering and sore, and drags himself to the bed upstairs. He stares blankly through the hole in the ceiling at the clouds lazily rolling above his head.

He desperately tries to remember. Anything.

Slowly, the faint, flickering memories return, some more clear than others, some colorful, some devoid of any color.

_Slavery. Escaping Danarius. Meeting Hawke and fighting at her side all these years. His initial hatred for her that, over time, turned into respect and attachment. Learning to read and learning to trust her. Failing at both._

_Hawke helping him kill Hadriana’s thralls in a dank slaver cave. The illusive sister that may or may not exist. His own hand crushing the magister’s fluttering, frightened heart._

Fenris remembers that the act brought him no relief. He frowns.

_He wasn’t satisfied then and he let his disappointment and resentment loose on Hawke. He said things that must have hurt her._

_And then he fled._

Sitting up, he ignores his protesting muscles and fetches himself a bottle of wine. There are spatters of blood on his hands. He stares at them for a long while, uncomprehending. Struggling to remember more.

_He was sitting on the bench in the hall of her mansion. Losing his patience when her servant kept insisting on letting him further inside so that he could be comfortable while waiting for her. Fenris didn’t want to be comfortable. He had to apologize first, he wanted to._

_Then she returned, her black hair ruffled by the wind, her knowing, blue eyes searching his, her words soothing and comforting…_

Agreggio Parvali gradually melts the cold uneasiness in his gut, but it doesn’t help him piece together any events from the last night. In his mind there is only a frighteningly confusing blur of lust and pain, moans and screams, need and anger. Nothing more, except maybe awareness that something has gone very wrong.

Shuddering, Fenris realizes that he is going to have to talk to Hawke about it. Ask questions. Give answers.

He also realizes that he doesn’t have the courage to do it.


	2. Carver

Carver was sweating. The moisture trickled down his massive neck and under the heavy templar armor, bringing only a slight relief from the heat of the Gallows. He swung his greatsword against the nearest recruit, easily parrying an unskilled attack, and he chuckled at the muted whine of protest from the younger man.

“That’s not fair!”

Shaking his head, Carver picked up the shield the recruit had dropped and handed it to him.

“In battle nothing is ever fair, young ser. You have to be prepared for everything, even for someone with a sword much bigger than yours.”

With that, still laughing quietly, he moved to the shadowed area of the courtyard and grabbed a mug of refreshingly cool water from the table set up for those who trained there.

“Ser Carver!”

There was an unusual urgency in Cullen’s voice that made Carver spin on his heel and look at the knight-captain approaching quickly. Too quickly.

“You have a visitor,” the other templar said, easily skipping any pleasantries. “I was made to believe it is a matter of great importance, so you are permitted to leave the training and visit your sister.”

Blood rushed along his veins in an unspoken alarm, and Carver stared for a while. “Visit? My sister? What-”

The knight-captain only gestured in the general direction of the gate. “You will not know unless you go and find out, I believe.”

Carver ran.

Bodahn was waiting for him, pacing the courtyard overlooked by the large statues. Other templars and occasional passer by citizens were giving him strange looks then hurried on their way, avoiding any contact. Carver understood why only when he grabbed the dwarf’s shoulder and turned him around to face him. The tunic Bodahn wore was all covered in bloodstains, enough to suggest something horrible had happened.

“Marian?” That was the only word Carver managed to choke out through his clenched teeth, hope nearly dying in him when he saw a pang of fear on Bodahn’s wrinkled face.

“Messere, there has been… an… she…” The dwarf’s voice broke and he sobbed. “I went to fetch messere Anders first, but he was nowhere to be found, and miss Marian keeps calling your name, all this time, even though she… she… we had no potions at home and even if we had... that wouldn’t be enough… not enough, for anything…”

_It’s bad. Very bad._

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Carver straightened and steeled himself for whatever was to come.

“Let’s go,” he spat and rushed ahead, dragging the still shocked dwarf along with him.

The estate was painfully quiet, even Rufus wasn’t there to greet him as he used to do every single time Carver was visiting. Over time, Carver's presence in the family mansion had become a rare occurrence between the templar training and the tempestuous quarrels he was having with his sister, but he would come back every now and again, unable to sever the connection with the only family he had left. And now, as he strode across the empty rooms, he could feel the same atmosphere of grief that greeted him after their mother had been murdered.

“Marian!”

Not expecting any answer, he rushed upstairs to her room, oblivious to the unpleasant clank of his armor or its heavy weight on his shoulders. Nearly ripping the door off its hinges, he stepped into the room and froze, suddenly unable to make a single step more towards the bed.

“Marian.”

No, that torn shred of a human being could not be his sister, it could not. Direct sunlight coming from the window revealed large bruises on her sides and her chest only barely moved as she breathed… or rather struggled to breathe. There was blood all over her naked form, still flowing sluggishly from the broken nose and slightly opened mouth. Both eyes were swollen shut, the once beautiful face mutilated beyond recognition.

“Car…ver? Carver? Please… Carver…”

The barely audible plea, so urgent, so desperate and needy, so unlike his proud older sister, broke him out of shock and he was by the bed in an instant. Dropping to his knees, he carefully, so very carefully reached out to touch her arm.

“Mari, by Andraste, what--”

She was unconscious, and thank the Maker for that, because he could clearly see the broken ribs straining against her skin, he could hear the painful wheezing with every shallow breath she took, her whole body twitching at even the slightest move that brought even more pain.

Carver did not bother to hide a tear rolling down his cheek, but he knew he had to get himself together, he had to act, he had to-- he could NOT panic. Anger was far more productive and he slipped into it like in the heaviest set of his templar armor. Standing up slowly enough to leash and muzzle his emotions, he turned to Bodahn, finding the dwarf still at the doorstep, politely averting his eyes and sobbing quietly.

“Go to the Hanged Man, find Varric there. If anyone knows where Anders is, it’s him. Explain what happened, and tell him that he’d better find that healer before my sister dies, or so help me.”

The dwarf bolted, glad there was something he could do to help. Hearing the door downstairs slam shut, Carver unbuckled the breastplate, piling it with the rest of his equipment on the floor by the wall.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he picked the single potion he had brought with him and removed the stopper with his teeth. It took a long while to gather the courage and touch the twitching and shivering body next to him, too aware that whatever he did, he would bring pain with it. With one palm carefully supporting her neck, he touched the small bottle to her torn lips with the other and poured a bit of the liquid into her mouth. Nothing happened, so he quickly put the bottle away on the nightstand and massaged Marian's throat to force her to swallow. It seemed to be working, but suddenly a stray drop found its way into her trachea and she coughed violently, her fingers clawing at the mattress in agony.

“I’m sorry, sis, I’m so sorry,” Carver whispered, trying not to panic, and wincing when a thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, across the bruised cheek and down to the stained sheet. “I’ll kill the sons of bitches who did this to you, I’ll kill them, raise them from the dead and then kill them again, I promise. Just don’t die on me, Marian, don’t die on me.”

“Carver! Where are-- please, brother, help me...”

“I’m here, right by your side!” He cried out, raising his voice in a desperate attempt to make her hear him, through whatever nightmare she was dreaming in the Fade. "I'll protect you, sister, I always have..."

To keep himself occupied, he fetched some water and a washcloth from the bathing room, intending to clean the worst of the blood and hopefully cover the naked body with a soft blanket to provide much needed warmth for it. The water had turned to deep crimson and the linen washcloth had lost any traces of its original white when Marian’s breathing became even more labored, every exhalation of air bringing a spatter of blood to her lips. She didn’t have much time left.

Carver dropped to his knees by the bed and sobbed soundlessly, a prayer dying on his lips, useless and hopeless that it was.

It was then that he heard commotion in the lobby and the sound of footsteps rushing up the stairs, taking steps two at a time in a hurry. Moments later Anders barged into the room and, before Carver had any chance to hide the utter despair reflecting on his face, or even say anything coherent, he was shoved to the side as the mage took his place, palms already glowing with the soothing, healing light.

_Hope._

Hours passed and Carver watched with morbid fascination as Anders struggled to remain conscious, pouring all of himself into Marian’s battered body. There was fatigue on his face, and a few empty flasks of lyrium potion on the floor by his side, but he was not giving up, fighting for her life as if it was his own.

When, near midnight, he swayed and nearly collapsed, his eyes closed for a brief moment. Long fingers clenched on the bedframe in helpless anger, and Carver heard the mage whisper to himself.

“It is the only way, please! You have to help me. We can’t lose her. Not Hawke.”

Moments later, Anders’ eyes flashed with cobalt blue glow as Justice took over and flooded the entire room with the blindingly bright aura of the Fade. As soon as Carver managed to calm himself down after that sudden display, he approached the bed only to be instantly fixed in place by the icy glare.

“TEMPLAR. STAY AWAY FROM THIS MAGE.”

The deep, resonating voice of the spirit did not manage to intimidate him, however.

“She’s my sister, demon, so sod off.”

There was only silence as blue tendrils of magic kept flowing from Ander’s fingers towards Marian's body, winding themselves around her, gliding along her skin, knitting tissue and bones, smoothing out scars and bruises. Carver felt horribly ashamed of himself at the sight.

“I-- thank you, Justice.”

No answer. The spirit departed as suddenly as it had appeared, and Anders instantly slumped to the ground, unconscious. Ignoring him for the time being, the young templar climbed onto the bed next to his sister and let himself sigh with relief. Her breathing was even and steady, the face, though still a little swollen, was the same face Carver knew so well. No broken jaw, no smashed nose, no torn lips. Marian was going to live.

Allowing a small, tired smile to lighten his features, he switched his attention back to the healer. Gently, he gathered the other man from the floor and carried him to the guest room downstairs, surprised at how light and scrawny Anders was. Placing the apostate on the bed, he pulled a wool cover over him and let his eyes linger on the weary face for much longer than it was absolutely necessary. After a brief moment of hesitation, he planted a quick, chaste kiss on Anders' pale lips.

“Void take you, mage.”

With that he spun on his heel and ran out of the room, heading straight for the kitchen. Once there, he found Bodahn snoring softly with his forehead pressed against the meticulously clean table. Sandal was, as always, nearby, gazing intently in the general direction of Marian’s bedroom.

“Enchantment?”

Carver sighed and rolled his eyes at that. “More like a de-- no, spirit... eh, whatever.”

Hearing them talk, the older dwarf stirred and raised a pair of bloodshot, tired eyes at them, the fearful inquiry behind them all too obvious.

“Marian will live,” the younger Hawke said quickly, resting his heavy hand on Bodahn’s shoulder in an awkward, but reassuring gesture. “Look, I know you are exhausted, but I have a request. Could you, please, fetch some food and water for Anders? I put him in the guest room.”

“Of course, ser Carver, I’ll get to it right away. He saved miss Marian, that’s the least I can do to repay him…”

Nodding a quick thanks, the templar stormed out of the kitchen, unwilling to leave his sister unguarded for a moment longer. Upstairs, he sprawled on the bed by her side, leaving the bloodied sheets to be changed in the morning. She needed rest and sleep more than anything else at that point.

“Carver?”

A hand reached out into darkness and he caught it, bringing the cool, trembling palm to his cheek.

“Present.”

With a soft cry, Marian snuggled up to him, arms wrapping tightly, desperately, around his waist as she pulled herself to his chest, burying her face in his tunic.

“Hey, it’s all right now,” he whispered, hugging her carefully, still afraid she might break into thousand little pieces at the slightest touch. “Anders has healed you, you know.”

She whimpered softly, paying no attention to his words. “Don’t leave me, brother, please don’t leave! Stay with me, please… please, Carver, stay!”

“I have no intention to leave any time soon, Marian,” he reassured her in a serious voice. “Not before I make the bastards who hurt you pay for all the pain you had to bear.”

“No! You can’t… you mustn’t hurt him, promise me, brother, promise!”

Carver’s fingers clenched to fists behind her back as he fought the urge to grab her shoulders and shake her to make her speak coherently again. “Marian, are you trying to tell me that ONE man did all that to you? You? The damn Champion of Kirkwall?”

He cursed himself for the traces of old envy lingering in his voice. Fortunately, Marian seemed oblivious to them, pushing him slightly away to look into his eyes.

“He didn’t mean that!” She seemed scared, though of what, Carver did not know. “I broke his rules and he just… he didn’t mean to hurt me, Carver. He didn’t!”

“Who?”

The question hung in the air, both a threat and a promise of punishment. Marian shook her head and remained silent.

“Fine, don’t tell. I’ll find out anyway.”

There was a disappointed sigh, so typical for his older sister, and it took a moment of hesitation before she moved to the safety of his arms again. “Carver, don’t you think that I could punish - or stop - him myself if I wanted that?”

Carver tensed up. “Of course. The Champion does everything by herself,” he hissed. “What made you keep calling for the wee unimportant me, then, I have no idea.”

Getting ready for a stinging retort or at least a rebuke, he flinched when his sister curled up into a little ball by his side and buried her face in the pillow instead. He barely contained a shocked gasp when he realized that she was crying - her pained, hysterical sobbing muffled by the down filling as her fingers clawed weakly at the mattress.

“Maker, I’m so sorry, Marian.”

At the gentlest touch, she raised her head and sniffled loudly, but refused to look at him.

“Don’t push me away, brother," she pleaded quietly. Begged. Marian Hawke actually begged her little brother for protection. Carver would gladly call this a well deserved victory if his heart wasn't aching so much at the memory of her battered body. If he didn't feel that powerful need to scream, because someone had dared to hurt his family. The last of it he had left.

"I’m so scared, so frightened, so… broken," Marian went on, her fingers tugging shyly at his tunic. "I can’t… I-- not any more. But you, you can make me feel safe. Only you, Carver, because I don't have to be afraid of you, because I can trust no one else... never should have.”

“It was one of them that did it to you, wasn’t it,” he said before he could think. “A friend.”

A sharp, pained intake of air was more than he needed to be proven right. With a resigned sigh, he gathered her into his arms again and pulled a cover over them both.

“Sleep now. You need rest, we’ll talk more tomorrow.”


	3. Marian

Hawke struggled to set herself free from the iron grip of the gauntleted hands. The pointy Tevinter armor dug deep into her flesh, cutting the skin, drawing blood… hurting her once again. She screamed, but no sound escaped her throat. She tried to run, but her muscles refused to obey. Helplessly, she watched as Fenris’ eyes narrowed to slits, a furious desire for pain – HER pain – flaring up deep behind the mossy green irises.

As the suffering intensified, Marian’s mind instinctively called for the thick, luminous haze of oblivion, wishing it into existence, making it creep up on her. She hoped it would claim her just as it mercifully did when the elf had hurt her for the first time, less than a full day ago. Before she could drift away, however, she heard a voice - soft, pleasing, soothing… oh, so soothing as it called her name… Instantly, it filled her entire being with calmness and a promise of relief.

Hawke closed her eyes. The glowing mist was still there, waiting, its ghostly tendrils brushing against her mind, tickling her consciousness with the deceptive serenity of the Fade. There was something else there as well, though, and Marian shivered uncontrollably.

“I can make him caress you,” the desire demon whispered, words brushing against Hawke’s sore mind like the softest of Orlesian silks. “I can make him gentle. Caring. I can make all your fears go away.”

Not trusting herself to speak at that moment, Hawke shook her head in defiance, but remained pliant in the elf’s grip as he kept clawing at her in his ruthless fury. Like a wild wolf pawing at his prey.

“Yes, you do fear him... yet, even through the pain he causes you, you feel drawn to him.” There was just a hint of triumphant smile in the silky voice that made Marian flinch. “But pain doesn’t have to be the price to pay for his affection.”

Hawke sobbed. “Away with you… demon.”

“Oh, you sound so weak, Champion. So eager to give in. How could I possibly abandon you now?”

Suddenly, the surroundings shimmered as the demon dissolved into nothing, and Fenris... Fenris was kissing her. His lips were deliciously gentle as they touched hers, his astoundingly skilled tongue asked, rather than demanded to be let inside her mouth. Hawke took a shuddering breath and, with great exertion of her will, turned her head away, barely noticing another flash of anger in his eyes. Just as he had expected, the pain returned, if only for a brief moment that time.

“Stubborn though you are, I know exactly what you want,” the demon teased, speaking through Fenris’ lips this time, his deep, rumbling voice making her knees weak. With the torture interrupted, all the pain had vanished as the elf’s tongue began lapping at her neck, tickling her ear in the most sensual caress she could have ever imagined.

“All you need to do is let me help you,” the demon-Fenris offered. “And then… I am yours.”

Ashamed of her own weakness, Hawke heard herself moan in pleasure. She had to focus, she had to stay alert, she had to find something... someone...

“Carver! Brother, help me… help!”

Still unable to move freely, Marian let her fingers weave a pattern in the air. Tugging at the untamed power all around her, she kept thrashing wildly in the elf’s tight embrace, his kisses and wanton moans burning her with flames of raw desire. Having the spell ready to cast at the demon, however, she made the mistake of looking up at him...

Fenris stared back, green eyes widened and hurt, disappointed gaze focused on her already glowing palm, betrayal reflecting on his handsome face.

A quiet, disgraceful whimper tore itself from Hawke’s throat. She couldn’t use her magic against him. Not even in a nightmare brought to her by a demon, not even to save her life. Swallowing a sob, she got ready to cast the spell on herself instead, hoping that self-inflicted pain would be enough to wake her up, bring her back to reality... to her fears... to everything she would have to face in the morning... to _him._

The spell flickered at her fingertips as her resolve wavered.

“No. I must... No! Carver, brother, please help me!”

A deep breath, just the slightest move of her wrist and-

“Wake up, Marian! Wake up, damn you!”

Her eyes flew open and instantly focused on the silhouette of a man looming above her. She let out a panicked cry and attempted to crawl away. Her palm raised, still ready to cast the spell, but the man grabbed her shoulders and firmly held her in place, pushing her against the softness of the mattress.

“It’s me, sis! You called for me, so here I am, but if you fry me with that fireball, I swear I’ll skin you alive.”

“Carver.” She felt no relief. Only panic and fear, still more fear. She had almost hurt her brother. “Carver.”

“Yes, that’s my shitty name. Now be so kind and get your cursed magic away from me.”

“Then take it,” Marian blurted out before her mind had a chance to protest. “Take it all, brother. Please!”

Predictably, he did not hesitate for a second. Calloused fingers perched on her forehead and she felt her mana being pulled from her - quickly, efficiently and without remorse. Her body arched at the almost painful intrusion, but moments later she collapsed limply back on the mattress – weakened, exhausted and gasping for air, but grateful.

One weakness less to be afraid of. Even if only for a while.

Carver shifted uncomfortably at the silence between them, then got off the bed and disappeared into darkness of the moonless night that filled the room.

“Don’t leave me!” She reached out for him, clawing at the air, feeling vulnerable and empty, afraid to be alone… so very afraid. “Please.”

Warm light filled the room, revealing her brother's bulky figure standing by the bed, only a few steps away from her and Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. Carver placed the candle he had just lit on the nightstand and returned to the bed, taking his place by her side again. He took Marian’s cold, quivering hand in his and simply held it while his eyes sought hers.

“Why?” He asked at last, when she refused to look at him.

“Because I was scared,” Hawke murmured hesitantly, not quite ready to explain herself to him. “It’s… better this way.”

Carver shook his head and made himself more comfortable, his back supported against the headboard. “It sure is, if you ask me, so not going to complain, you know.”

“I know." She winced. "It must have been difficult for you with everyone in the Gallows aware that your sister is a mage.”

Unexpectedly, Carver let out an amused chuckle.

“Not many left who still dare to comment on that,” he offered casually, but his fingers curled to angry fists at his sides. Shyly, Marian’s fingertips brushed against his knuckles in a wordless expression of gratitude.

“You have always been my favorite brother.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “It’s just because I am your only brother, fool.”

“The one and only.” Blinking sleepily, Hawke pulled the cover up to her chin and turned to her side, curling up into a little ball. “If I wake up and there is… something wrong… you will know what to do, yes?”

“Something wrong?” Carver tensed up, staring at her questioningly. “What, by void, does that mean?”

“You _will_ know,” Marian whispered and let exhaustion claim her.


	4. Anders

Anders woke up with a splitting headache. For a moment he struggled with himself, unsure whether he was awake or not - the bed was definitely too soft and the covers smelled too damn well to be his lousy cot in the clinic. Only when he managed to raise his heavy eyelids at last, did the events of last night flash through him and he jumped to his feet. Forgetting the dizziness and exhaustion, the healer rushed to the door and soon found himself crumpled on the carpeted floor, groaning at the room spinning all around him.

"Messere, are you all right in there?" It must have been Bodahn, Hawke's dwarf servant. "I'll get ser Carver immediately."

"Maker, no! I'm fine, I just-"

He didn't get a chance to finish the sentence as Carver practically stormed into the room, opening the door with enough force to have it slam against the wall. _Deep breaths, Anders, deep, slow breaths._ Expecting the usual angry tirade of accusations and disgust from the younger Hawke, the mage sat on his heels and tilted his head, looking up daringly.

"Good morning, ser templar, anything this apostate can do for you today?"

To his surprise, Carver winced in something that could be considered discomfort, and regarded him for a brief moment in complete silence. Then his strong arms reached out and roughly pulled Anders up, supporting him firmly when he swayed once again.

"When was the last time you ate something decent, magey?"

"What?"

"Just asking, is all." Carver glared at the tray of untouched food by the bed, then shrugged. "You weigh less than your damned staff, you know."

Anders was staring now, the mental image of a templar carrying him downstairs to this room and tucking him in suddenly too much to bear. "And you care because--?"

The younger Hawke let out an exasperated sigh. "Because you saved my sister's life, idiot." With that he removed his supporting arms, but remained close enough to catch the healer again if need be.

"You're welcome," muttered Anders and dragged his feet towards the door. "I need to check on her, she still needs more--"

"She's fine for now," Carver interrupted with a wave of his hand and strange unease in his voice. "Sleeping. Dreamlessly, at least for a while longer. No danger. And you and I need to talk."

"If you are going to give me the talk about mages and abominations, then I can tell you right now to shove it as deep as your templar ass can handle."

Bracing himself for a punch in the face, Anders looked away, making sure to keep his chin high. Hawke's brother only shook his head, however, and moved past him towards the main hall. He stopped by the kitchen's door and spun on his heel to face the healer.

"Move your skinny ass here, magey, breakfast is ready."

When they were settled comfortably by the long kitchen table, with Anders wolfishly devouring anything Bodahn placed in front of him, Carver's mouth stretched in a cheerless grin.

"No wonder you passed out," he offered, the unexpectedly placating tone of his voice easily fending off a suspicious glare from the mage. Then his expression changed, a furious growl barely contained in his throat. "Any idea why she refuses to tell me who did that to her?"

Anders swallowed audibly to avoid choking and shook his head, unsure he had the right to tell Carver anything before talking to Marian first. Or taking the matters in his own eager hands.

"I know one of you did this," Carver went on, as if expecting the denial. "And, contrary to what you lot think, I am no fool."

Squeezing the mug in a white knuckled grip, Anders looked up to meet the templar's eyes and held his breath. There was an flash of righteous anger in them, and need for revenge so strong that it seemed to glow... and both were perfectly mirrored in the healer's own eyes. Noticing his reaction, Carver slowly nodded his acknowledgment and raised a mug to him - they had both managed to figure out the name that, though unspoken, hovered in the air between them like a curse.

"She's everything I have and he almost took her away from me," the younger Hawke said at last, the words barely a whisper in the thick silence. "I won't let this go unpunished."

Anders was just about to say something utterly unwise when a sharp cry from Marian's bedroom cut the air like a whip. Strengthened by the obscenely rich breakfast, the apostate was there first, rushing in to kneel by the bed. Grabbing her palm, he kissed it softly, healing magic glowing at his fingertips as he began pouring it into her weakened body.

Panting a little, Carver caught up, scrambled onto the bed by her side and kissed her temple, his face weary with concern and lack of sleep. "I'm here, sis, you're safe."

Marian's eyes were open wide, but unseeing, struggling to focus as she turned to her brother. Suspecting the reason, Anders sent a probing pulse of magic through her.

"You bastard," he hissed angrily, wincing at the painful emptiness that screamed at him from deep inside her. "You couldn't help yourself, could you, _templar_. You just had to drain her, you--"

"I asked him to do it."

It took Anders a moment to realize that the tiny, raspy voice he heard through the haze of his anger was Marian's. "You-- what?"

"The Fade, Anders." She was looking at him now, aware, pleading. Frightened. "I am weak. Vulnerable, now. Without Carver, I would just--"

The healer snorted. "No you wouldn't. You're stronger than that."

She smiled, she actually smiled, and her beautiful, elegant fingers squeezed his palm weakly. Anders' foolish heart skipped a beat.

"Carver protects me," Marian insisted, a slight edge in her voice making the other mage uncomfortable. He did not let go of her hand, however, even when she slowly turned her head towards her brother again. "She was there again. Waiting for me. And she was better prepared this time. So much better..."

A slight hitch in her breath, a barely perceptible shudder. Fear. Anders understood.

"I told her to go ahead," Hawke went on, a frigid spark there and gone from her eyes. "I told her to take me and kiss her ass goodbye, because my big templar brother would be waiting for her on the other side, ready to cut my head off if I woke up possessed."

Carver's shoulders slumped and Anders could swear he heard him stifle a sob.

"Sis..."

Marian laughed. It was a mirthless, daunting cackle. "And she's gone, because she knew I was telling the truth. She gave up, Carver, you saved me."

"Sod it." Blinking rapidly, Carver quickly got off the bed and stalked to the door. "He wanted to examine you. I'll-- I'll leave you two alone."

"You scared him away," Anders offered when the door closed.

A single tear rolled down Hawke's cheek. "He'll be fine. He's stronger than any of us is."

"Marian."

She shook her head. "Please, don't ask me that."

"I don't have to. I know it was that wild dog of an elf," Anders said, his tone much more spiteful than he had intended. "I just don't know why. He seemed so head over heels for you, watching you, putting himself between you and danger in battle all the time, arguing with you over stupid things just to hear your voice..."

"Anders."

"No, I need to understand! You just about died here, on this very bed!" His control slipped, a part of him willingly giving up to Justice's resentment. "I caught your last breath, the very last tether keeping you in this world, Marian! The last... so I deserve to know why you would let that mage-hating bastard kill you just like that."

Sitting up abruptly, Hawke cupped his face in her palms, locking her gaze with his. "Look at me, Anders. Look at me and tell me who it is that you see."

He blinked, uncomprehending. "Just you, Hawke. A mage like me. A strong, beautiful--"

"Look again, damn you! Think!" She nearly screamed, digging her fingers into his cheeks painfully. "The same hair, the same eyes, even my face... by the Maker, I could be her twin sister! And if I can't stand the thought of looking like her, how could he possibly-- how could he---"

Suddenly, she released him, collapsing back onto the bed in a cascade of angry sobs.

"That Hadriana bitch? He wanted to kill you because he suddenly remembered that you look like his former mistress?" Anders would laugh at that if the circumstances weren't so horribly tragic. "And you just... let him?"

"Not suddenly." Marian clawed at the bloodstained sheets, holding onto them, her entire body trembling. "Put your prejudice for him aside for a while, damn you. I pushed him into that, it was all my fault."

"What?!"

A slight blush colored her pale cheeks. "I wanted him so much, waited for so long... I'm not made of stone, you know. So when I finally had him here, willing... I wanted... I wanted him all at once, I used that magic trick you explained to me, remember? It was after Deep Roads, when I got drunk in the Hanged Man..."

"I still don't see how--"

"Anders, please. Think. I'm a mage. I was not being... slow or gentle with him. I never paid any attention to how compliant... submissive he had been all that time. And, to make everything even worse for him, I used magic. On him. It was then that something in him snapped and..."

"Still, it's not an excuse," Carver said from the door, obviously standing there unnoticed for long enough to hear everything. "Even if you tried to tie him to the bed and whip him till he bled, he had no damn right to take his lousy personal issues out on you."

Anders could only nod in perfect agreement, amazed how easy it was to see eye to eye with a templar when they both loved the same person.

"No, he had no right and it's not an excuse," Marian, surprisingly, concurred. "But it proves that he is as much of a victim in all of this as I am."

"Bull shit," both the apostate and the younger Hawke said in unison.

Marian looked up at them fondly, but panic was still lingering in the strained lines of her face and in the twitchy moves of her arms. "Please, promise me you won't hurt him. He almost killed me, yes, and I do want to run and hide at the very thought of him being anywhere near me, but... I do love him, I have loved him for so long that I can't stop just like that, even after... please, promise me that you won't--"

"Enough," Carver raised a hand when her voice broke at last. "We'll discuss that later."

Anders sighed. Slowly, he gathered himself from the floor. "I should go back to the clinic, anyway. I've been neglecting my patients long enough."

Marian shifted uncomfortably. "Anders?"

He stopped, but did not turn back to look at her.

"Thank you for saving my life," she whispered. Remorsefully. As if _she_ had anything to apologize for. "I'm sorry. For everything."

"I'm a healer," he replied simply. "I'll heal."

Bowing slightly, he brushed past Carver, whose eyes were red and puffy, and still fixed on the small figure curled up on the huge bed.


	5. Varric

Varric hated the fact that he had to take a deep breath before knocking on Hawke Estate's massive door. He certainly was not getting soft, he even managed to delay the visit for as long as his anxiety had allowed him to... which meant less than a day. The shameful fact was that the image of Hawke's servant - bloodied, shivering and stuttering on his doorstep, delivering the gruesome news, would haunt him for many weeks to come.

He heard the latch moving and forced a neutral expression to his face, but failed to contain a sigh of relief when Bodahn greeted him with a reassuring smile that clearly meant _"all is well"_.

"Messeres are resting upstairs," the older dwarf offered, letting him in. "I'm sure they will be glad to see you, serrah."

"I'd like to have a word with you first, if that's all right." He rolled his shoulders, just to feel the soothing touch of Bianca on his back. "Now that you aren't falling to pieces, you'll be able to properly tell me everything I need to know."

The servant's chin raised daringly. "I was simply worried, there was no falling to pieces involved, messere."

"Of course," Varric patted the other dwarf's shoulder and shot him his trademark smooth smile. "I assume Blondie did his job and Hawke is patched up, yes?"

Bodahn nodded, opening his mouth to say something, but he was not allowed to.

"Good. That being out of my head, I would like to know what exactly happened that night."

Fumbling for words, Bodahn looked away. "Serrah Hawke would be most displeased if-- I should not share such private details with anyone, messere."

Varric expertly pretended to ponder the thought for a while. "You are right, you shouldn't, but you will, because you want me and Bianca to find whoever dared to hurt her and kill the sons of motherless whores."

The older dwarf nodded, resigned, and pointed towards his quarters. "Let's talk there, perhaps, no one will be able to hear us..."

Once they had settled inside and made sure to close the door, Bodahn kept his eyes fixed on the floor, his lips tightened into a thin line as a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek. Varric sighed.

"I need to know," he offered carefully. "And it looks like you need to get it off your chest, so..."

The servant dried his eyes with a sleeve. "You are right, messere, I do, because it is all my fault."

"What? How can it possibly--"

"Messere Fenris came here looking for serrah Hawke, but he insisted on staying in the hall and he seemed more irritated with me than usual. When she arrived, they were talking and arguing there, so I went to the kitchen to prepare some supper. When I got back to announce that it was ready, they... they were kissing. Of course, I didn't want to interrupt, so I retreated back to my usual place, and they didn't even notice me as they passed by on the way upstairs. Then there were..."

Bodahn blushed, then paled, finally he got up and began pacing the small room. "There were screams and moans and shouts, yes, but tell me, messere, what was I supposed to think? They have always been so angry at each other, yet they kept together, I thought... I thought they simply enjoyed it that way, yes? Of course, I should have known better, I should have done something, check up on them, but--"

Hunching his back, Bodahn let out a shaky groan. "Later, everything calmed down upstairs, so I assumed I wouldn't be needed until morning and I retired to my room. I left my door open, however, and before I could fall asleep, I saw messere Fenris leaving, so I went to bolt the entrance door after him. I should have gone to ask if messere Hawke needed anything then, I should have, but it seemed inappropriate, considering-- so I went back to my bed... and in the morning, messere Hawke was-- she was-- if only I--"

Varric exhaled deeply, only now realizing that he had been holding his breath. "Did anybody else enter the estate that night?"

"No one, I am absolutely sure of that," the older dwarf replied. "I'm a light sleeper, I would certainly hear it if-- Besides, there was a storm coming, all doors and windows remained closed and locked all night, I checked them myself. Twice."

 _Broody, what have you done?_ Varric pinched his nose, trying to gather the thoughts and wishing it was all some kind of a bad dream.

"Messere?"

"None of this is your fault, Bodahn. You can stop blaming yourself."

With that, Varric stormed out of the room and rushed up the stairs, straight to Hawke's bedroom. He was about to scold, and reason, and maybe even yell a little bit, but when he saw the two siblings, his frustration quickly ebbed away.

Carver was sitting on the bed, his back rested against the headboard, head dropped uncomfortably to the side, asleep. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and lines of worry on his face that weren't there the last time the dwarf had seen him. Even in his sleep, the younger Hawke kept his arms protectively wrapped around his sister who was curled up in his lap, her face buried in his chest.

"Now, aren't you two the sunshine of my day," Varric said, loud enough to wake the one of them who had lighter sleep. Predictably, it was Carver who stirred and looked around sleepily. "Good afternoon, Junior."

There was no expected retort, so the dwarf approached and, making sure not to make too much noise, pulled the desk chair closer to the bed.

"So, Junior, you in a particularly good mood today, or just happy to see me?"

Carver blinked and stared at him. "What?"

"Ah, eloquent as always," Varric chuckled, making himself comfortable on the cushioned chair. "Was just surprised you didn't yell at me, that is all."

"Didn't want to wake Marian, _that_ is all," came a harsh reply, but still it did not sound like the bitter and defensive Carver the dwarf knew.

"She all right?"

"I hope so," the templar whispered, his eyes shifting to the still sleeping woman in his arms. She seemed fragile without her armor and fearsome staff. Small, weak and powerless like a little bird. A tiny hawk chick. "Body's fine, but the mind..."

Varric winced at that, his anger and disappointment returning. "You know... we'll have to deal with Broody. Sooner rather than later."

"Who else knows?" Marian suddenly interrupted, a hint of irritation in her voice as she disentangled herself from Carver's arms to glare daggers at the dwarf. "Or maybe you've already managed to write a story about it, hmm? The great Champion of Kirkwall, beaten to a pulp by a Tevinter elf. Riveting tale, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm not the one you should be pissed at, Hawke," Varric replied calmly, holding her stare without flinching. "You know that. And if I wanted a story I would be writing it in my palatial suite at the Hanged Man right now, instead of strolling around Hightown in this heat just to check up on you."

"Maker, I'm sorry. I'm--" Marian's eyes went wild before she bit her lip and turned away. If Varric hadn't known her better, he would assume she was afraid of his reaction to her angry words. "I-- I just..."

Seeing his sister suddenly so tense and nervous, Carver pulled her closer to him and held her quivering palms in his. "Give her a break, dwarf."

Varric raised his arms in a mock surrender. "I'm not pushing. Just wanted to know what we are going to do with the elf. You're my friend, Hawke, and Bianca won't let me just let it all slide."

Marian let out a shuddering sigh.

"I want to confront him on my own, I have to, I-- owe him that, but... can't deal with him now, I'm not--- not strong enough. Not yet." She paused, her entire body trembling as she struggled to stifle a sob. "So please, just... drop it. Both of you. And Anders, too. Don't... don't gang up on me like that. Let me do it my way, when the time comes. _If_ it comes. Please."

"Hawke, I can't just ignore wha--" Varric began carefully, but stopped when Carver shook his head slightly, signaling for him to give up. "Oh, fine, have it your way, but don't mind me if I watch him suspiciously from now on."

Marian sniffled like a snotty child. "Thank you."

"I would say _you're welcome_ , but I have a strange feeling that I am doing you a disfavor with this." Getting off the chair, the dwarf walked to the door. "I'll check back again tomorrow. And if you feel like doing a little side job to get out of this comfy bed, let me know, there have been some requests for your assistance."

When Hawke only whimpered something incoherent in reply, he opened the door, but stopped on the threshold and looked back to exchange a quick glance with Carver. The templar nodded and Varric left the room.

He walked down the stairs unhurriedly, then paused by the fireplace in the main hall, staring at the flames, his expression pointedly unreadable. Hawke's body was healed, but her mind seemed broken indeed. There was trepidation and unease that had never been there before. Uncertainty, fear of saying or doing anything that would make others harm her. The dwarf heaved a sigh. It was painful to see her reduced into a trembling mess constantly waiting to be hurt by the ones she used to trust with her life. Vulnerable Hawke was not something Varric Tethras was ready to deal with and so Broody was in for a long chat with Bianca.

Several minutes had passed before Carver joined him, the large calloused palms of a swordsman balled to angry fists at his sides. The younger brother seemed to be Hawke's only safe haven now and it made perfect sense. He was the only family Marian had left, someone she shared a lifetime of both happiness and suffering with. Despite the quarrels and disagreements, the blood bonds among humans always meant much more than those among dwarves, and - for once - Varric was grateful for that. Having her trust in the ones she had considered friends shattered, Hawke needed the support from someone she could be sure would never hurt her. And, surprisingly, Carver seemed more than willing to deliver.

"You have changed, Junior," Varric offered, making sure his voice was professionally neutral.

"Seeing your sister turned into a bloody mess and watching her slowly die in your arms will do that to you," Carver replied heatedly. "And I want nothing more than to skin the bastard alive... but she won't let me, damnit."

"She loves him," the dwarf replied with a shrug. "These two have been walking around each other for years, you know. Sometimes it hurt to watch them growl and quarrel when all you could see in their eyes was that burning need to touch and feel the other one close."

"You're storytelling again, dwarf."

"Perhaps I am, but..." Varric shook his head wearily. "They really were that dramatic. Still are, it seems. I just wish I knew why he had decided to kill her all of a sudden. If there was one thing I was sure of in this world, it was his affection and respect for her. He was so clumsily obvious with it sometimes, too. Even though he would be the last one to admit that feeling even to himself."

"Hadriana," Carver muttered through clenched teeth. "I don't know who she is, but Marian told Anders that the elf had tried to kill her because she looked just like that woman. Any idea what's this all about?"

The dwarf stared at him for a while. "Maker's balls. I didn't notice back then, but... yes, Hawke does look a lot like that bitch. Shit, no wonder Broody has been so bristly around her all this time. Must have been a hell of an effort for him to ignore the resemblance all the time."

Despite the muscle twitching on his cheek, Carver waited for further explanation with astonishing patience.

"Hadriana was a magister back in Tevinter. She used to torment Broody a lot, it seemed," Varric supplied quickly, relating the whole story as concisely as he could. "And after we killed her, Hawke tried to calm the elf down, comfort him, even, but he just decided to be nasty to her and stormed off. Naturally, she rushed after him. I guess they met each other here... We all had hoped then, that-- but there was too much anger for this to work, I suppose."

"You too, dwarf?" Carver was seething. "Giving him an excuse for what he's done? Blaming it all on Marian, yes?"

"Andraste's tits, no." The dwarf shuddered. "I still want to unleash Bianca on him, but... now I can at least understand why he did that. For all I know about this elf, he's not quite right in the head when it comes to his past, so it wasn't just blind fury against Hawke. Couldn't be, not with that strange angry love there is between them. That night he was probably fighting that magister, not Hawke. Lunacy as it seems to be."

"No! I won't have it, damn you." Spinning on his heel, the young templar stalked back to the stairs. "I'm going to _have a word_ with him, and I don't care if she allows me to do that or not. No one hurts my sister and goes out of it unpunished. No one makes her flinch at the thought of being around other people, no one makes her scream in panic every damn time she falls asleep, no one--"

Varric winced as the young man's voice broke.

"Do what you need, Carver," he said quietly, using the proper name for the first time in years. "I am going to respect her wish, but I certainly won't stop you... and no, I'm not going to warn Broody. Just... for Hawke's sake, don't kill him. It might actually break her."

"Like she hasn't been broken already." Taking a deep breath to calm down, Carver rolled his shoulders, muscles moving menacingly under the linen shirt. "But no, not going to kill him. Marian needs me, she depends on me now. I couldn't do anything to fail her, not even for revenge... But I _will_ make the bastard pay."

When the bedroom door closed behind Carver, Varric whistled quietly.

"Who would have thought," he murmured under his breath. "Junior has actually grown up. Mark the calendars."


	6. Fenris

Another bottle was empty and he still didn't feel ready to go. See her.

Hawke.

Almost a week had passed since he woke up on the dirty floor of his mansion's hall. Shivering, confused and lost, with no memory of what had happened mere hours earlier.

Between him and Hawke.

This particular blank spot on the map of his broken memories was like a sore, festering wound, and the only way he could cope with it was through the wine. Because talking to Marian seemed far beyond his limits.

The bottle was empty.

Angrily, the elf threw it at the wall. Oh, Hawke would laugh at him for that. She would call him a drama queen. Then she would try to comfort him, in her awkward, rough way that he would no doubt find... effective. For lack of a better word.

Fenris hunched forward in the rickety chair and curled his long, lyrium-marked fingers in his hair, tugging fiercely. It's been a week and Hawke hasn't showed up to ask him to join her in saving the corrupted city from itself. Obviously, she didn't wish to see him, but why?

The warrior took a deep, shuddering breath. He had always felt uneasy in her presence - insignificant, worthless, undeserving, and so very angry. Of course he had, she was a mage, she was not to be trusted!

He would gladly follow her into the Void.

One more trait imprinted on him by his former master, no doubt. All fake, all--

Another painful tug at his hair. No. Somewhere deep inside his broken self, he felt she would do the same for him, without a moment of hesitation summoning all her powers to support him, help him, save him, if need be. He was aware of that, yet he kept denying to acknowledge and accept it... because she was a mage and mages were not to be trusted. They were wicked, vile beings ready to turn against their allies if only there was enough incentive for them to do so.

There was a quiet sound of footsteps on the stairs. Fenris jumped to his feet, swaying only a bit when the entire room moved with him, apparently floating on the red waves of Aggregio. Sword in hand, the elf spun on his heel and snarled.

Speak of the demon.

"There is no reason for you to be here, abomination."

Unceremoniously, Anders let himself in and, in perfect silence, approached him in a few quick, purposeful steps, stopping just inches of the rigid, growling warrior.

"If you do not wish to see your heart up close, I suggest you leave instantly," Fenris warned, putting the sword away and letting his markings flare up.

"How could you?" The mage spoke at last, voice so angry that it was almost breaking at the words. Soft brown eyes narrowed to furious slits, flashing with a mesmerizing shade of blue. There was the sharp sound of his staff's metal-encased tip hitting the floor, and instantly the mage was surrounded with the cobalt aura of the demon he had harbored inside his body.

Reluctantly, Fenris made a hesitant step back at the obvious display of power.

"Abomination!" He spat on the floor at the healer's feet. "Get out!"

"NO." The demon's voice boomed in the small room, making the elf wince slightly. "YOU SHALL PAY FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE, THIS INJUSTICE WILL NOT BE LEFT UNPUNISHED."

Fenris stared at the glowing figure uncomprehendingly, blissfully unaware that the moment of hesitation cost him his chance for victory in the imminent fight. Before he could phase out and lurch forward, the elf was violently thrown against the wall, the sheer force of impact almost knocking him out with the sickening crack of breaking ribs. As soon as he slumped to the ground, he felt the same unwavering force hold him in place as wave upon wave of agonizing pain rushed through his markings, making him cry out in anguish. The liquid flame spread across his entire body along the intricate lines of lyrium, scorching the flesh, tearing the muscles and twisting the lithe body to unimaginable angles. Unable to move or defend himself, the warrior clawed at the grimy tiles, unwilling to give up, stubbornly struggling with the feeling of his consciousness gradually slipping away.

Then, suddenly, it was all over. Fenris' howl died on his lips, replaced by weary wheezing as he gasped for air. Blinking away the tears, the elf looked up, supporting himself gingerly on a quivering elbow.

Anders was laying in a boneless heap on the floor, unmoving, the demon's glow gone, the staff kicked away from his reach by a heavy booted foot. Fenris let out a shuddering breath and, with an indignant groan, forced his abused body to sit up to see his rescuer.

"Carver?"

The young templar nodded slightly, but did not bother to even glance in his direction. Instead, he carefully gathered the abomination into his arms and placed him in the chair. Making sure Anders was comfortable, he ran his calloused fingers affectionately against the stubble covered cheek, and whispered an apology. When Carver shyly brushed the mage's lips with his own, Fenris shook his head, wishing that he was hallucinating after the torture the demon had inflicted on him. This simply could not be. Feeling disgust and bile rising in his throat, he froze when the younger Hawke approached him and with just one hand hauled him up to his feet.

"You hurt my sister," Carver hissed, effortlessly holding the weakened warrior against the wall. "And Maker, help me, I should kill you for that."

Still unable to call for his powers, Fenris thrashed faintly in the iron grasp. "I-- hurt her?"

The templar frowned, trying to assess whether the elf was mocking him or being genuinely oblivious.

"How?” Fenris kept asking with just a hint of panic in his deep voice. “Why would I?"

Dropping the warrior to the floor, Carver stepped back and ran a hand through his pitch black hair. "If that is the excuse you are going to use," he laughed bleakly, "it won't work, you bastard."

A heavy fist flew towards Fenris' face, nearly breaking the jaw and sending him flying against the moldy cupboard. When he had allowed himself to collapse, Carver's knee pinned him to the floor, his thick arms delivering a series of merciless blows to his sides.

"Venhedis, stop! Stop!"

"Did you stop when she begged you to?"

"I do not know what you are talking about!"

"Did she know why you were breaking every single bone in her body?"

"I would never!"

"I bet she thought so, too."

"I love her!"

At that, the templar jumped to his feet and stepped back. His fists were still clenched at his sides, but there was a strange mixture of remorse and anxiety reflecting on his face.

"Some way of showing it you have, elf. She would have died, if not for Anders."

"She did die," the healer said quietly from the chair. "If not for Justice, I wouldn't have been able to save her."

Slowly, Fenris dragged himself to a sitting position and supported his back against the cold wall. Ignoring the two men glaring at him, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, welcoming the pain it brought. Attempting to recall that night once again, he cautiously filled in the blanks with the information he had just been given...

_Marian, kissing him, against the wall. Holding him firmly, the power of the Fade shimmering slightly around her. Marian, forcefully dragging him to the bedroom. Her hips moving seductively while she undressed, her black hair shining in the light from the fireplace. The icy coldness of her eyes clashing with the warmth of the flames. The wicked, hungry smile on her lips, magic sparkling on her fingertips, her body pressing him against the soft mattress... urging, demanding... mocking…_

"No!"

Hissing, Fenris barely managed to contain a furious roar when the images of his own hands bringing excruciating pain to Marian’s slender body flooded his mind at last.

"No..."

He bolted. Pushing the surprised Carver away, he rushed for the door, crying out at the pain radiating from his broken ribs, stumbling and almost falling at the doorstep before he reached the stairs and all but ran down, to the entrance and outside, away from the decrepit house where every sound and smell reminded him of who he really was.

A raging, hating, heartless beast.


	7. Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, in its (short) entirety, is dedicated to my dear friend Broody. :)

When the sound of the elf's frantic footsteps faded in the distance, Anders sighed wearily and turned his eyes to Carver.

"You should have let me - Justice - kill that son of a bitch."

The templar shrugged.

"Probably," he offered, sitting heavily on the dusty bench in front of the fireplace. "He needs to live, though. My sister needs him."

That ended the discussion.

"Void take him, he really did not remember," Carver said at last when the silence became uncomfortable and Anders was just about to get up and leave the stinking shithole of a mansion.

"Doesn't make him any less guilty in my books." The mage rubbed the swollen spot at the back of his head and healed it with a quick spell.

"Ouch," he grumbled. "Couldn't you have simply drained me, templar?"

"I don't think I could drain Justice out of you," the younger Hawke replied with a dark chuckle.

The mage nodded. "True. I'm not mad at you, just so you know."

Carver raised an eyebrow and placed a hand on his heart in a mocking gesture of relief. "I feel so much better now."

"Thanks for all the warnings about templar raids on Darktown, by the way." The healer's voice sounded strangely strained.

"Glad my messengers reached you in time."

"Why?" Anders suddenly demanded, grabbing Carver’s elbow and squeezing it tightly. "You're a templar, and all those years you've kept me safe. I could never understand, why would you..."

Carver flushed, but it might have been the closeness of the fire affecting his skin. Anders tilted his head, brows creased as he studied the young man in front of him with growing interest – the calloused fingers of a swordsman clutching the edge of the bench in a white knuckled grip, the dark blue eyes stubbornly refusing to look up, the strong jaw clenched enough to make a muscle in his cheek twitch...

"I'd better go back to Marian, I shouldn't leave her alone for too long," Carver murmured after a long while he apparently needed to get a better control of himself. "I rushed out of the estate when I saw you passing by and heading here. I haven't even told her I was leaving, she might... I should go. And you should leave, too."

Licking his suddenly dry lips, Anders watched the templar stand up and slowly walk to the door where he stopped and waited, turning slightly to shoot a quick, almost shy, glance back at him. The mage smiled to himself, unsure if he should feel flattered or terrified at what he thought he had noticed in Carver’s eyes.


	8. Marian

"Carver, I said NO." Marian flailed on the bed, turning her back at him when he began rummaging through her wardrobe. "Please, don't make me go there, see them all."

"You need to start getting out again," he huffed in reply, tossing a light tunic and leather pants at her. "You are the Champion of damned Kirkwall, and it's been well over a week, enough of this pitying yourself already."

Magic sparked in the air and - thanks to the years of living under the same roof with three mages - he instinctively prepared himself to be either zapped with electricity or hit by a fireball, but... nothing happened. When he peeked from behind the wardrobe's massive door, he saw his sister sitting on the edge of the bed, both fists pressed to her chest and eyes wide.

"What now?" He tilted his head trying to figure out whether she was angry or frightened.

"Maker, I--" Marian whispered, barely managing to contain a sob. "I'm sorry, please, forgive me! Carver, I didn't mean to-- I didn't-- shouldn't... I--"

Reaching out her trembling hands to him, she looked up into his eyes pleadingly. "Drain me, now, I can't be allowed to use it against--"

"Shut up, Marian." Stalking to the bed, he sat by her side, wincing when the wooden frame creaked under his weight. "No more of this, we agreed on that days ago. It's not a demon inside you that makes you want to put my hair on fire, only your horrible temper. We both know you are incapable of hurting someone who has done you no harm, sis."

She smiled weakly, resting her head on his shoulder with a sigh. "Tell me, why did you join the Order? I used to think it was to spite me, but now... now I know you must have had other reasons."

Carver sighed and she could feel his muscles tense when he pressed his chin against the top of her head. "You are such an idiot sometimes, sis."

He remained silent after that, hoping she would reply with a snarky remark about his own stupidity or at least try to put him on fire as she used to do when they were kids, but nothing like that happened. There was a painful sting somewhere deep inside him when she only nodded slightly in consent at his harsh words.

"I joined the Templars because I wanted to protect you," he said quickly before she had a chance to demean herself with words again. "I figured that with Anders ranting so much about how mages are being oppressed in Kirkwall, you could use someone on the enemy side. So that I could warn you in case Meredith wanted to make a move against you."

"Anders?" Marian asked incredulously. "Did you actually talk to him while I was in the Deep roads?"

Despite the uneasiness he had suddenly felt, Carver chuckled lightly. "I wouldn't call that talking, really. More like him giving speeches and me trying not to fall asleep in the process. But yes, I went to see him a few times, he seemed to know more than anyone else about how mages are treated here."

"He's a fanatic, brother, an abomination, you shouldn't have--"

"No, he is right, actually."

"What?" Marian pushed herself away to look into his eyes. "Carver?"

He let himself drop onto the bed and covered his face with his massive arms.

"Well... I'm the Champion's brother, so Meredith likes to keep me at her heel. It's just for show, I am not trusted, obviously, but I am not a fool, either. As I follow her, I watch and I see. Sure, mages are dangerous and should be controlled, but the way they are handled in the Gallows is--"

There was a sharp intake of air and he shuddered a little. Marian scooted over to lie down next to him, then reached out to tug at his sleeve.

"Brother?"

"Just be glad you are not locked up there," he whispered, letting her small hand hold his while he stared blankly at the canopy above him. "Be glad you can be free, shamelessly flaunting your magic and not giving a damn about the Knight Commander. Be grateful, sister, and don't ever treat Anders like a madman again."

Marian's eyebrows raised a little. "You seem... fond of him?"

"And that's the most important thing in all I've said, how?" Carver grumbled and shrugged. "I just feel sorry for him. He's fighting for a lost cause and he is fighting it alone. No help from anyone, not even his friends. I kinda sympathize, I guess. I've fought alone all my life, too. Just... on the other side."

"About sides. Let me remind you," Marian whispered to his ear confidentially, "that you are a Templar. And he's a mage."

With an angry growl Carver jumped out of the bed and rushed to the door. "So are you, sister dear. I am well aware of what he is, and of the fact that you owe your life to that abomination. Let me remind YOU." Muttering curses under his breath, he left the room, running down the stairs, and moments later she heard the entrance door downstairs slam behind him.

Grabbing a pillow, Marian buried her face in it and howled, letting the down filling muffle the piercing cry. Of course, she had to ruin everything. The tentative peace between them has been fragile at best, like a tower meticulously built upon the unsteady ground of pain, fears and regrets. It seemed that she had managed to crush it in just one day.

Hawke sighed and sat up, throwing the pillow across the room. How could she be so careless? First, she only barely managed to prevent herself from using a spell against her own brother, and then... then she mocked him like she used to do in the past, patronizing him in that condescending tone of voice she so hated now. Carver practically confessed that he had sacrificed his freedom in order to protect her, but all she cared about was his unexpected kindness for Anders.

"Fool!"

In a flash of anger she rushed to the door, to chase after him, apologize, do anything, but... she stopped abruptly before she could even reach the stairs. Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked down at Rufus sprawled in front of the fireplace, snoring peacefully in his sleep. The large mabari seemed oblivious of Orana, who kept herself busy dusting off the mantelpiece, humming a beautiful tune in her soft voice.

Hawke shivered and made a few steps back.

Despite Carver's constant urging, she hadn't left the bedroom in all those days, afraid to face the reality, afraid to look others in the eyes. The irrational fear of them suddenly turning on her, wishing - plotting, needing - to hurt her for what she was, for the way she looked, was stronger than any reason Marian could possibly muster. No wonder Orana cowered every time Hawke passed by. No wonder Bodahn was so unnecessarily subservient. No wonder Fenris--

Another hesitant step back and she was alone in her room again, away from the servants' eyes. Safe. Crawling onto the bed, she curled up with her back against the massive headboard, hugging her knees and letting the tears flow freely down her cheeks. A couple of hours had passed on silent weeping before she exhausted herself enough to feel the faint tug of the Fade. Her eyes closed wearily, but moments later she came awake with a startled cry, clawing frantically at her arms to keep herself from falling asleep.

"No," she whispered, feeling warm blood stain her fingertips. Staring at her mangled skin, she cursed silently. "You were right, brother... you were right, I am the Champion of fucking Kirkwall, I killed the damned Arishok, I can't live like that."

With a newfound resolve, Hawke picked up the tunic and pants that Carver had chosen for her, and quickly changed her clothes, dropping the night gown to the floor. When she fastened the belt and pulled on her favorite knee-high boots, unexpectedly, she felt like a human being again. Stronger. Forcing a half smile to her pale face, Marian took a deep breath and, carefully avoiding the mirror, made her way to stairs.

This time she managed to drag her feet downstairs and even ignore the urge to scream when Orana suddenly froze, the song dying on her lips as she bowed and greeted her with the forbidden word 'Mistress'. Focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, and keeping her breathing even, Hawke waved the elf off and made her way to the back of the house. Her fingers trembled when she frantically probed for the key hidden in one of the pots on the nearby shelf, panic overwhelming her as she imagined having to go through the entire city in full daylight, among all those people who knew her as the invincible champion... staring at her, greeting her, afraid of her and her powers that should have been locked up in the Gallows--

With a small whimper Marian finally located the key and opened the door leading to the cellars. She carefully locked it behind her and rested her back against the rough wood, sliding down to the dusty floor, waiting for her pounding heart to calm down. Her bravery all but evaporated and she felt small and vulnerable again, berating herself for her own stupidity. She should have waited for Carver, she should have apologized to him and only then--

Hawke sighed and wiped the cold sweat from her forehead with a sleeve. No. Carver was a Templar, sooner or later Meredith would demand of him to come back, play her pet again, and then... she shuddered at the thought. Not only because he would not be there to protect her, to give her that wonderfully warm feeling of absolute safety from everything, but also because it would mean losing him again. He would be out there in the Gallows again, where he could not be himself as he had always wanted, where - even as a knighted templar - he was being reduced to the role of the Champion's brother. A valuable asset for the Knight-Commander. Nothing more.

Growling quietly, Marian dragged herself up and straightened her back, raising her chin high. She had to stop whining and focusing on herself, she had to be strong for her brother like he has always been strong for her, even though she never bothered to notice or acknowledge that. With her fists clenched, she quickly descended several flights of stairs and rushed down the dim corridors, the stench of Darktown gradually filling her lungs. She winced at that, but kept meandering among the rubble and junk conveniently covering up the secret entrance until she found herself in front of Anders' clinic. The lantern was unlit and the door seemed to be barred, but she banged her fist against it anyway, hoping that he was inside.

"Please, come back tomorrow," the healer's voice seemed weak and weary, but Marian wasn’t going to give up.

"Anders, it's me, let me in... please," she almost begged, resting her forehead against the dirty planks, suddenly aware of all the curious eyes watching her every move carefully, hungrily, greedily... As soon as the door was swung open, she slid inside and instantly closed it behind her, needing another deep breath to calm down and chase the panic attack away.

Anders eyed her with his usual clinical scrutiny, no doubt noticing the weight loss, pale skin, dark circles under her eyes and the muscles quivering with exertion. His palms instinctively reached out to help assess her condition with magic, find damage and heal, but she shook her head and shot him a reassuring smile. "I am all right, doctor, I just need... advice."

"Well, here's some: you should eat more," he blurted out, moving to the back of the clinic and pulling a chair for her to sit down.

Marian snorted. "Look who's talking," she murmured, glaring at the pile of parchments on the nearby table, each of them covered with his uneven, chaotic scribble. "Your damned manifesto looks better than you."

Flinching, she bit her lip and looked away.

"What's wrong?" Anders inquired carefully, sitting on the nearby cot and resting elbows on his thighs, his gentle eyes fixed on her. Concerned.

"I know I've been a bitch most of the time," Hawke began, fumbling for words, feeling like an idiot apologizing now, after all those years of disrespect. "I've never wanted anything to do with your CAUSE, it-- no, with Justice, he has always frightened me, and I've never-- but you still--" She dug fingernails into her flesh again and hissed at the pain it caused to the already injured skin. "I need your help, I really can think of no one else to turn to... there has to be a way to--"

Without a word, Anders reached out and grabbed her arm, quickly pulling the sleeve up. "We don't have to be friends, Hawke. You are a mage and I am - as you've good-naturedly kept pointing out - an abomination. But you helped me keep control when I lost it, and I will always help you in any way I can, always." A tendril of sapphire blue magic flew from his fingertip and brushed against her skin, the cool touch of a spell instantly healing the scratches. "Why did you do that?"

"My magic." Marian dropped her eyes in shame and suddenly couldn't manage more than a whisper. "It's dangerous, I can't-- I gave him pain with it, I didn't mean to, but I did and-- it's wrong, sick, I--"

Anders didn't let her finish, squeezing her palm a little bit too tightly. "If you need to hate someone for the harms done by magic, take it out on me. Never on yourself. Never on others."

"Don't... don't say things like that, please." Hawke shuddered, involuntarily moving a bit away from him, tilting her head to search for his eyes. Fortunately, there was no trace of the spirit in them, so she sighed softly, feeling the urgent need to change the uncomfortable subject. "I need your help, Anders, I have to stop looking like... her. Somehow. I don't care how, I need to change something - anything - in me to start looking like me, not like the Tevinter magister... I have to, or I will do something horrible to myself next time I have to see my own reflection."

The healer stared at her incredulously. "Creation magic doesn't work that way, Hawke, I'd love to do that for you, but I don't see how..."

Marian raised her hand. "I thought about changing my hair. The color, I mean. Yes, I know there are potions and herbs Isabela could recommend for that, but I want a permanent change. Seen that small patch of hair on Carver's temple? The boys in Lothering hurt Bethany once, Carved fought them and he returned home with a deep, bleeding cut. Father healed it, but... it was years ago and his hair has been white there ever since, so it IS possible to-- I’m babbling. Maker, I hope it made sense for you."

Anders, Andraste bless him, seemed to be considering the idea. "If you are absolutely sure about it," he offered at last, "I can look into it, do some research. But... I can't really do it now, I need to-- give me two days, and I'll get back to you."

She was just about to thank him when the door to the clinic was kicked open and Carver stormed inside, eyes wild, sword in hand. As soon as he saw Marian, he dropped the huge blade and rushed to her, sweeping her into his arms and crushing her against his chest so fiercely that she could almost hear her ribs creaking.

"Ouch," she whimpered to his ear and he immediately let her down with an embarrassed little scowl.

"I thought--" He stuttered a bit, like he used to do as a child when he was frightened. "I got home, you weren't there, I thought that you were taken, or--"

Hawke smiled fondly and embraced her brother. "I'm all right, big bro. And look, I went outside, just as you wanted."

Carver managed a crooked smile, then turned to Anders. "Is she really all right, magey?"

"Strange ideas aside, she is." The healer nodded and waved them both off, his gaze suddenly absent. "You should go now, I have work to do that is more important than-- You should go."


	9. Merrill

Merrill took another turn and sighed, finding herself in an alley she did not recognize, hopelessly lost among the filthy streets of Lowtown.

She had tried to ask about the way, but after being pushed away and scolded for daring to speak, she gave up the idea. With a slight pout, she tried not to think that it was getting dark, that Varric had probably started telling yet another story to his faithful audience in the Hanged Man, a tale she was going to miss. Perhaps he would agree to re-tell it to her later on...

With a sigh, she turned back to where she thought her little home was, carefully looking around for any potential trouble and hoping she would manage to hide before trouble could actually find her.

Just when her bare feet - still unable to get used to the cold and hard stone - had begun to hurt really badly, she heard a strange noise in a nook ahead of her. It sounded like a pained howl, an angry cry of someone obviously hurting more than they could bear, and yet fighting to keep themselves from falling apart.

Merrill ran.

She found him pressed into the corner between two rough, dirty walls. He was unarmed and looking so very lonely in the way he was hugging his knees, his forehead rested against them, his whole body shaking.

"Fenris! Are you lost, too?" Dropping gracefully to the dirty ground next to him, Merrill did not notice an angry wince flashing across the warrior's face when he looked at her. "I couldn't get to the Hanged Man, so I have been trying to find my way back to the alienage, but I only managed to get more lost, I think."

"Go away, witch," the other elf snarled, standing up hastily to put a few steps of distance between them.

"Are you hurt? I have a potion with me, I could--"

"I said: GO AWAY!"

"But I heard you! You were in pain!"

There was a low growl as Fenris spun on his heel, walking away. Merrill quickly caught up with him, trailing a few steps behind.

"I know you don't like me, Fenris, but I really can--"

He stopped abruptly and turned to her with a hand stretched out warningly in her direction.

"You can not. You will not. Now leave!"

Blinking rapidly, Merrill took a step back at the unmistakable sound of lyrium markings being activated. Her eyes flicked from the already glowing palm to the warrior's face.

 _Surely he wouldn't... Oh._

His eyes were puffy and slightly reddened, as if he had been crying. And the deep, painful sadness reflecting in them made her heart skip a beat.

 _Oh._

He must have noticed her expression changing, softening from frightened to compassionate, for he let his hand drop to his side and shrugged.

"I don't need your pity, blood mage. Now go away."

When he moved on, walking fast down the narrow alley, Merril simply followed him in silence. The streets were dangerous, she knew that all too well, and if anything bad happened, he would need help. She was going to be that help for him. It could not be an accident that she had met him there, after all.

"Why won't you just leave me alone?" He snapped at her after a long while, practically spitting the words out, without looking back. "Do you enjoy seeing me like this?"

"I see that you are hurting, and that you don't have your big scary sword with you," the mage explained patiently. "And it is dark already. If there are bandits on the way, you will need help dealing with them."

"I don't need YOUR help, witch."

"I think you do." Apparently he decided to not grace this with a reply, so she went on. "I know you think that I am stupid, and that you and Anders really hate me for my magic, but I also know that you are both wrong."

"There's no wrong in not trusting a blood mage," the warrior growled.

"I understand why you think that, but you must understand that I am not stupid. Unlike Anders, I do know that all spirits are dangerous. That all spirits can be called demons, the way you see it. And I am careful."

"Careful!" Fenris tensed visibly and shook his head. "Spare me the lecture. You have consorted with a demon and I tolerate you only because of... Hawke."

Merrill shivered a little when his voice broke slightly at their leader's name.

 _Oh._

"No mortal can win a fight with a demon single-handedly, Fenris."

"What?"

"It is not possible. You can keep struggling with it, battle after battle, after battle, but one day you will be weak enough to simply let it win. So if you do not want to let others help you, you have to lose, unless..."

"Why are you telling me all this?" The warrior demanded, his fingers clenching to angry fists.

Merrill sighed.

"Unless you make a deal with it," she went on. "Sometimes, the only way is to accept the fact that a demon is a part of your life, that it will not go away, that it will always be there to taunt you. If you do that, if you remember to never trust it, you are the one to make the rules, to make the demon obey them. If you are strong enough, the demon will never be able to rule over you."

Fenris let out a ragged breath he had been holding while she talked.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because we all have our demons, Fenris," Merril tilted her head a little, her eyes never leaving his.

"You know nothing about me, witch!"

"But I know a lot about demons. And I know that you are strong enough to control yours."

He stared at her for a long while, fury and confusion twisting his face into a frightening grimace. The mage stood her ground, however, looking back at him unflinchingly, her chin high. She was trained to be a Keeper and it was a Keeper's job to help the lost find their way. Fenris could take her words or discard them, but Merrill was not going to apologize for sharing the wisdom with him.

At last, the warrior pointed to an alley to his left.

"The alienage is that way, the gate is behind this building," he said simply, then turned around and walked away in the opposite direction.

Merrill watched him go and she smiled a little to herself.


	10. Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite obviously, for artistic purposes, I decided to play a bit with the timeline here...

The night was young, the cards were on the table, and her mug was filled with something strong enough to subdue the unwanted thoughts. Hawke sat back in the chair and shook her head with a chuckle. "I'm out, I would rather keep my clothes, and it seems to me Bela is cheating again."

"You wound me, Hawke!" The pirate offered a saucy wink and pulled an extra card from her cleavage, proudly presenting it to everyone. "THIS is not cheating, just making things interesting."

Hawke found herself giggling at the other woman's unrepentant grin. "And you excel at that."

Taking a long swig from her mug, Marian reveled in the hearty chuckles that rolled around the table. Seated comfortably between Carver and Aveline, she felt absolutely safe. There were Varric and Bianca's deadly bolts in front of her, Isabela's poisoned daggers on her left and Merrill and Anders' powerful magic on the right. They were her friends. Her family. And they were there to keep her safe, make her stronger, never to hurt her.

She smiled shyly at her memories. The good ones.

***

_It was dark already and, after a particularly heated discussion about her refusing to socialize, Carver simply tossed her over his shoulder and carried her to Varric's suite at the Hanged Man. Upstairs, he forced her onto a chair, his large hands on her shoulders not letting her bolt until she listened to everything they had to say._

_Many words were said, probably more than any of them had ever said to another before, but for the life of her, she could not recall them. All she remembered was the overwhelming anxiety when she was let go at last to make a frantic run for the door... and her pounding heart when she stopped with a quivering hand clutching the door handle. Standing there, shoulders hunched, head held low, she was waiting for a stab in the back, for betrayal and hurt that never came._

_When she had finally managed to take a deep, shuddering breath and turn around to face them again, Varric simply grabbed the cards and dealt her in, while Isabela filled a mug and placed it on the table for her._

_"Tough it up, soldier," Aveline ordered calmly. "I need your help to keep an eye on that cheating whore."_

_Merrill giggled at that, and Anders simply smiled with the rare, warm and healing smile of his that she learned to appreciate over the past weeks._

_The first step towards the table was a struggle. There was cold sweat on her forehead and a catch in her breath, but she made it. After what seemed like an eternity, she dropped on the chair, took a swig of the filthy ale, picked her cards and… suddenly, everything was all right once again._

_Everything except that one empty chair that no one bothered to look at or comment on._

_***_

A cool draft of fresh air brought her back to the present. Shivering, Marian curiously looked around the Hanged Man's common room. Three newcomers slowly made their way among the tables and stopped by the bar. A gold piece landed on the counter and Corff quickly hid it in his pocket, gesturing towards the stairs. A slender, red haired elf woman quickly rushed upstairs, her large, green eyes sweeping the room just once before she disappeared behind the corner. The two men stayed behind, one of them quite obviously a mage, dressed in expensive looking yet plain travel robes, the other wearing a set of exotic armor. After the mage barked something that sounded like an order, the other man quickly ran back outside. With a disgusted grimace, the bearded man slowly climbed the stairs, his back perfectly straight and his head high, a nauseating aura of superiority practically radiating from him.

"My, what a team," Isabela drawled, her shapely nose wrinkled in distaste. "I hope they don't plan to stay long."

Anders shivered slightly. "There is something wrong about him, but I can't—"

"You mean something beside the fact that he's a mage and totally not hiding it?" Marian asked quietly, feeling uneasy herself.

The healer nodded.

"I'll keep an eye on them," the dwarf offered, gathering the cards, his eyes scanning the room carefully. "For now, I suggest we call it a night, Junior here is falling asleep already, poor baby."

"Am not!" Carver growled, not even bothering to hide a wide yawn.

With a fond chuckle, Marian ruffled his hair and stood up. "Let's go home, big bro, you're going back to the Gallows in the morning, you can't show up there with huge bags under your eyes..."


	11. Anders

Hawke was nervous, her breathing slightly quickened, pupils blown wide while she watched him looking over a few pages of notes to prepare. She was also eager to take any risk, her resolve in the firm grip of the edge of his desk as she waited patiently, doing her best to control her nerves.

Heaving a sigh, Anders put the parchments away and sought her eyes.

"You are absolutely sure you want that?" He asked for the fourth time since she rushed into the clinic, mere minutes after he had sent her a message saying that he was ready. "It's irreversible, I won't be able to—"

"Let's just get on with it, please?" 

Shrugging, he stood in front of her and rested his cool palms on her shoulders. "Can't promise this will be pleasant."

"Anders, I'm ready, just do it, for fuck's sake." 

Marian swayed when he began channeling the spell into her, wispy tendrils of pale blue turning white as they left his fingers and met her skin. With a whimper, she placed her hands on his chest for support, holding the threadbare fabric of his robe in a white knuckled grip. Moments later, when the magic began accumulating inside her, he felt her shudder violently and a small cry escaped her lips. Opening his eyes, he shifted to break the spell and support her quivering form, but Marian only shook her head and fixed him in place with a pleading look. He held her stare, keeping himself focused, pouring all of his resources into the ancient spell that he had managed to twist enough to meet her needs. 

It took all his resolve to continue and keep Justice contained while he was bringing undeserved pain to her. When it was done, and the smell of ozone filled the stale air of the clinic, he breathed a sigh of relief. Hawke collapsed straight into his waiting arms, her pitch black hair now incandescent white and soft as the finest silk, her cheeks damp with tears.

Carefully, he led her to the nearest cot and helped her lie down, using the remnants of his mana to send a probing spell to check for any potential side-effects the spell could have caused. Finding none, he smiled at her.

"It worked, Marian. You have what you wanted."

Hawke let out a quiet sob and grabbed his wrist, pulling his palm to her lips for a quick kiss.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely and promptly fell asleep.

Dropping onto the cot next to hers, Anders took a deep breath, steeling himself for even more struggle. The danger had not passed yet. Exhausted and vulnerable, Hawke was completely exposed to the demons awaiting her in the Fade. With the issues between her and the elf still unresolved, with Carver not present at her side, she was in grave danger. 

"I need your help again, Justice, in the Fade, right now."

"SHE IS NOT OUR FRIEND. THIS FOOLISH FAVOR TO HER HAS TAKEN TOO MUCH OF OUR TIME AND RESOURCES ALREADY."

"I promised her brother to protect her."

"THE TEMPLAR SUPPORTS OUR CAUSE. HE IS FOND OF YOU."

"I know, that is why I need to keep my promise. We need to hurry, if—"

"YOUR THOUGHTS ABOUT HIM ARE DISTRACTING."

"It was Hawke I had a weakness for, I have no thoughts about Car—" 

"HE IS A HAWKE, TOO."

"He is not a makeshift consolation for me, if that's what you are implying."

"HIS FEELINGS FOR YOU ARE GENUINE. PROVEN WITH HIS ACTIONS."

"You can't seem to be able to make up your mind about him."

"HE COULD BE USEFUL FOR US."

"I'm not using anyone as a tool."

"IT WOULD BE MORE WELCOME THAN DISTRACTIONS."

"Are you bargaining with me, Justice? Let me remind you that this is exactly what demons do." 

"LET US ENTER THE FADE, YOU HAVE A PROMISE TO KEEP."

The dirty walls of the clinic shifted and wavered, dissolving into nothingness. The spirit's familiar glow was the only source of light in the darkness, yet it revealed no shapes or silhouettes.

A distant scream rolled through them, piercing and painful, making them run towards its source. A shaft of vivid purple light soon appeared in the distance, Hawke's curled form enveloped in it, bloody, bruised and trying to crawl away from the figure that loomed over her, dark and dangerous. Fenris. The elf's face was twisted in a grimace of pure hatred, his fists mercilessly bringing pain to the already battered body of the woman at his feet.

"CEASE YOUR TORTURE, DEMON."

With a snarl, Fenris spun on his heel, his normally moss green eyes flaring up with mesmerizing amethyst glow. The gauntleted hands reached out, metal claws shifting with a terrifying sound.

"What have we here? Are you lost, little spirit?" The elf hissed, a hollow tone creeping into his voice, betraying the demon behind the disguise. "This is not your dream, I wove it, you have no place here."

"I AM JUSTICE. YOU WILL NOT HAVE THIS MORTAL."

"She's mine!" In a flash, Fenris' body disappeared, revealing the curvy shape of a desire demon. "I found her, I tempted her, and you want me to simply give her away to you? Now that she's back in my grasp, unprotected and nearly broken, at last? No!" 

In perfect silence, Anders watched as an ethereal sword and shield appeared in his hands. His body, guided by Justice, easily slipped into an appropriate stance of an experienced warrior. 

"READY YOURSELF TO BE BANISHED, FILTH."

The battle was laughably short, the demon's entire arsenal of spells and minions no match for Justice's prowess. When her head rolled away into the darkness, cut off with a powerful swing of the spirit's sword, the sickening aura faded out instantly. Justice focused for a brief moment, re-shaping the Fade around them until it resembled the familiar bedroom in Hawke's mansion, with the battered woman's small and helpless form resting on the large bed. 

"I HAVE DONE WHAT YOU ASKED FOR."

With that, Justice receded, letting Anders take the lead and approach Marian in a few quick steps. She was conscious, but unaware of his presence by her side. When she felt him touch her hand gently with his fingertips, Hawke let out another helpless whimper. Her pale lips began whispering quiet pleas, frantic, desperate, yet barely audible despite the absolute silence that surrounded them. The healer brushed a stray lock of hair – black hair – from her face and listened carefully. 

"I'm sorry, Fenris… please, don't… please… I can't take any more pain, Fenris, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, I love you, Fenris… please, don't hurt me again… please, Fenris, please… I'll do anything for you, just please, love me… I'll do anything, anything..."

Anders winced. "Looks like we got here in the nick of time," he whispered, suddenly feeling like an intruder. He had no right to witness the fall of Kirkwall's Champion offering herself to a demon for the promise of something as fleeting and illusive as love. Placing a gentle hand on her forehead, the healer sent a pulse of soothing magic through her.

"Wake up, Marian. You are safe now, wake up."

There was a long sigh of relief and Hawke's body faded away, the rest of the dream soon falling apart and disappearing as well. 

Anders opened his eyes and sat up on the cot, feeling even more weary now than before the forced sleep. When he looked up, he met Marian's curious eyes studying him with a strange mixture of awe and wonder.

"I had a dream, but…" She shook her head, looking for words. "I thought I heard your voice calling me… and... Justice was there?"

Smiling faintly, Anders stood up and stretched a little. "Dreams are funny like that," he offered, not looking at her. "So, you like your new hair?"

Hawke ran her fingers through the silvery locks and nodded excitedly. "Very much. I'm gonna ask Isabela to cut it short for me, and I will never wear a robe again, just pants and tunics from now on. I'll get a new staff, too, one of those short ones with a long blade attached to it, they look almost like swords. No one should find any resemblance then, am I right?"

"No one," he assured her softly. "Will you be all right now? You can stay and rest for as long as you wish, but I have work to do."

Marian got off the cot and chuckled as her knee popped quietly. "Actually, I feel better than ever. As if some heavy burden was lifted off my shoulders. Thank you, Anders. You have given me a new life."

"It's just new hair, Hawke. The rest is up to you." He shrugged noncommittally, getting himself busy with the papers on his desk. 

She shook her head. "I'll let you work, then."


	12. Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More liberties taken for artistic measure, I am not sorry.  
> Also, this chapter practically wrote itself.

Fenris stared at a small, wrinkled parchment he held carefully between his fingers like something both extremely fragile and dangerous. Just a few words written in an elegant cursive that he found difficult to decipher.

__________________________

_I will be waiting for you for one week._

_I am staying at the Hanged Man._

_Your sister,_ _Varania_

__________________________

 

Sister. Varania. The name meant nothing to him. Not connected to a face, it failed to bring even the faintest echo of memories to his mind.

The elf let the piece of paper drop to the dusty floor at his feet. It could be a trap. It had to be a trap. Finding her and making her come to Kirkwall seemed almost too easy to be a simple coincidence or luck.

Danarius. That name meant everything. Pain and humiliation. Chains and whips. Blood and sweat. Fury and obedience. It was the only past Fenris had, the only memories in his head that made sense, coming before his eyes in perfect order every time he dared to recall them. Vivid, real. His life as a beast. His demons.

Was he any different than a beast while roaming the streets of Kirkwall, aimlessly, for hours, until he was too tired to go on? Was he anything else than a monster, standing in the rain in front of Hawke Estate, howling at the light in the windows? Running away whenever the door was being opened? Was he really a free man, clawing at the empty walls of the decrepit mansion he lived in? Drinking himself into a stupor every night since THAT night? Bottle after bottle, to fill the emptiness inside with something… anything…

He had fought for his freedom, for the free will he so desired. He was eager to spill blood, cheat, lie and steal to achieve it. He was willing to pay any price. And when it was finally his to keep… it turned out that he had unleashed a beast, nothing more. A monster that was better left caged and muzzled.

Pulling the clawed gauntlets on, Fenris slowly descended the stairs and headed for the battered door. Whatever awaited him at the Hanged Man, he was ready to face it. In one thing, the blood mage witch was right – free people had their demons, too. And he was not strong enough to deal with his. Not any more.

Surprisingly, acknowledging this simple fact had brought him peace. A sense of belonging, with the path laid out for him, straight and easy to follow.

Bright, warm sunlight greeted the elf when he stepped to the street and turned towards Lowtown. The few people he passed by pretended to not pay any attention to him. The merchants in the market turned their heads away. He felt invisible. As if he never existed. Wasn't that exactly what he had wished for?

He entered the Hanged Man, waiting for the door to close behind his back before he stepped further inside. There were several people by the tables, mostly unfamiliar faces, and among them… a flash of red hair, and mossy green eyes watching him alertly.

"Varania?"

She did not smile to greet him. She did not even bother to get up from her chair by the empty table. Apparently, he was not worth that much effort. Torn between curiosity and resignation, he simply stared as she turned her eyes away and spoke his name. The one not tainted with lyrium, unscarred, pure.

 _Leto_.

He did not deserve that name any more.

Fenris was ready to make a hesitant step forward, towards the life he had lost, when he noticed movement on the stairs leading to the upper level. His eyes followed Varania's gaze and the entire world suddenly narrowed to a single figure descending slowly, a contemptuous, possessive smile lingering on the thin pale lips.

"Ah, my little wolf. We meet at last." Danarius stopped in front of him, close enough that the elf could feel the faint smell of blood surrounding the man. The familiar smell of the only home he had truly belonged to. Predictably, Fenris could not find the strength in him to look up into the grey, mocking eyes. Instead, he kept his head submissively low. "And where is your new master, my pet? The famous Champion of Kirkwall? I hoped to meet a fellow mage and perhaps discuss the price for you in a civilized manner."

"I am alone. And I will go with you. Master."

"After my dead body."

Before Fenris had any chance to react, a well aimed fireball hit Danarius squarely in the chest. With his beard and clothing on fire, the mage quickly retreated up the stairs to shield himself, calling for the guards that immediately swarmed the tavern's common room, taking positions and awaiting further orders.

Dumbfounded, Fenris forced himself to look over his shoulder and his eyes went wide in surprise. The witch, the guard captain, the dwarf and the pirate, even the abomination, they were all there, weapons at the ready, and among them… a shock of snow white hair and a flash of icy eyes, black pants and burgundy tunic both tightly hugging the strong, shapely body of… Hawke?

Fenris gasped, unable to stop staring, unable to think or even breathe.

Marian wasn't looking at him, however, her glare focused on Danarius, a furious snarl marring her features. The elf could feel her magic tugging at his markings, the raw power of the elements right at her fingertips, ready to be unleashed.

Moments later, hell broke loose. 

Fenris managed to snap out of shock and joined the fight, slaying guards, shades and demons alike, cleaving his way through the walking dead, his eyes snapping back and forth between his current target and the personification of untamed wrath that was Hawke. The new Hawke.

It was Marian who had made the magister collapse to the vomit-stained floor, the tip of her strange, bladed staff at his throat, her heavy booted foot crushing his groin through the thin fabric of his robes. It was then that her eyes sought the elf for the first time, still angry and wild, still not really seeing him, merely acknowledging his presence.

"I believe you have an unfinished business with this piece of shit, Fenris," she offered, her breathing heavy after the fight. "Now's the time."

Dropping the bloodied sword to the ground, Fenris quickly approached. His eyes did not miss a slight twitch when his arm reaching for the man had brushed against Hawke's leg. Even while he crushed the blood mage's throat with the sickening sound of life escaping the body, he did not miss her hasty retreat as she stepped away from him to stand among the others.

Keeping distance.

He was a fool to hope for forgiveness. With a furious howl of defeat, the warrior spun on his heel to face his sister instead.

Varania, whose name meant nothing to him except betrayal.

"I would have given you everything," he whispered while she cowered in fear, her arms raised in a futile attempt to protect herself from him… from the glowing, lyrium beast that he was, now free to roam the world, free to murder... and destroy everything he held dear.

Dropping his hands to his sides, Fenris let the humming power of his markings calm down.

"Get out."

His sister fled, without looking back, without a trace of regret to leave her only family behind.

Varania. The first of many names he would strive to forget. Some of them would be easy to erase from memory, some would stay with him forever, like scars that never disappear, reminding him of his failures.

There was a meaningful cough somewhere behind him and the sound of footsteps moving hesitantly.

"I'd better go talk to Corff and see just how much of a _persona non grata_ I'll be here after all this mess." Varric's voice was strained, though the words flew from his lips as easily as always. "Rivaini, I'm gonna need your expertise to charm the man."

The two rogues disappeared upstairs, none of them acknowledging Fenris who stood perfectly still, facing the dirty wall, not ready to confront any of them.

"Right, since no one really needs any healing, I have some patients in the clinic that require my attention."

"And I should go back to the barracks, I have a ton of paperwork to do to explain what happened here. Come Merrill, I'll escort you to the alienage, it's getting late and I don't want you to get lost again."

The entrance door opened with a quiet squeak of rusty hinges, then closed slowly, leaving only him and Hawke among all the gore and burned corpses. A fitting scene for what was about to happen.


	13. Varric

They watched each other. Carefully, with eyes narrowed and muscles tense and quivering. Neither of them moved, nor dared a deeper breath, even. Both waiting. Hoping. Afraid. Several mutilated bodies separated them, the path of clear floor meandered among the corpses like a treacherous trail in the Korcari wilds, impossible to follow.

Silence hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable, but soon broken by soft rustle and a quiet sigh when a mortally wounded Tevinter guard twitched, giving up the struggle for life. A blast of fire quelled the sound instantly, the air by Fenris' side heating up momentarily and cooling down as soon as Hawke ended the spell. The power of the Fade kept clawing at the lyrium, however, still there, at the ready. 

Fenris winced. It was his turn to burn now. With shoulders slumped and head turned away, the warrior prepared for the mage's anger. He was ready to be punished, chained, whipped and humiliated. As he deserved. As was his only purpose in life. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, he waited like a good slave should.

"No." Hawke took a deep breath, dismissing her magic with a wave of her hands. The painful buzzing in the elf's markings died out within a heartbeat. "Never against you, Fenris. Never again."

Looking up, he allowed himself to marvel once again at the change in her. Snow white hair, dark brows, the staff that looked like a sword… it felt almost like he was looking in the mirror.

"Command me to go and I shall," he managed to whisper at last, voice thick with barely restrained emotions. Hope?

Marian sent him a wary glance. The shameless audacity he had admired so much in her still burned somewhere deep inside her eyes, though subdued by something Fenris could not name. Dare not name, because admitting that Hawke was afraid of anything – and of him, at that – seemed worse than blasphemy against Andraste.

When she did not speak, the elf nodded in acknowledgement and made a hesitant step towards the door. So be it.

"You son of a bitch."

Wincing, he turned to face her, sought her angry glare and held it, because anger was better than fear and disgust. He could deal with anger. He was trained for that.

Hawke approached him quickly, without hesitation, gracefully stepping over a corpse that separated them. She stood close enough to let him smell her sweat, her magic and something else he could not name, something that made his heart pound wildly.

With her eyes narrowed, she poked his chest with a bloodied finger.

"All this time we've kept our eyes on you! Carver made sure you were never accosted by any gangs while you were brooding in that nook in front of my house." She laughed bitterly at his surprised gasp. "Yes, we saw you. And Anders healed you when Varric's spies found you beaten up in Darktown, too damn drunk to defend yourself or even remain conscious. Aveline made sure no complaints about your night escapades into Hightown reached higher authorities. Merrill followed you all around Lowtown and Isabela watched over you whenever you dragged your sorry ass to the docks. You can't even imagine how many times these people saved you in the past weeks!"

Hugging herself, Marian stepped away from the elf and shook her head. "None of us hesitated when Varric tipped us off about you going to confront Danarius. We simply rushed here and fought for you. I fought for you. Despite the nightmares, fears and demons you have given me, despite the fact that you killed me. And after all that, you want to walk out on us – on me – just like that?"

Fenris swallowed. "Hawke, I—"

"Shut up and look at me! This," she tugged fiercely on her hair, "this is all for you! So that I don't look like her. So that you can… feel something else than disgust for me… so that maybe you can… maybe…"

A treacherous sob escaped her.

"I don't deserve you, Hawke."

She looked up at him, her eyes serious. "You're wrong. We deserve each other, Fenris. Nothing more, nothing less."

In the heavy silence, there was a sudden noise upstairs and an excited whisper behind the entrance door. The corners of Fenris' lips twitched in a failed attempt at a smile.

"They never really left, right?"

Quickly wiping a tear from her cheek, Marian shook hear head and laughed quietly. "No."

Taking a deep breath, the elf slowly removed his spiky gauntlet and reached out a hand towards the mage in front of him. "They fought for you here, not for me, because they are your true friends, Hawke. If you let me work for it, perhaps one day I can deserve to be one of them again."

Her arms trembled when she took his hand in both of hers, and simply held it, the warmth of her body so pleasant against his cold, metal incrusted skin. She nodded solemnly. "Just… be good to me, Fenris. I don't want to be afraid of you any more."

"Never again," he replied, slowly raising her hand to his lips and placing a tender kiss on the inside of her palm.

"All right, enough!" Varric rushed down the stairs, a stack of freshly made notes in his pocket, and a gleeful Isabela in tow. "This is getting too cheesy even for my standards! Blondie, Daisy, get back inside, we are going to need your help disposing of the corpses while Aveline deals with the authorities."

Fenris chuckled and bowed slightly. "Can I help?"

"You can bet your sword on that, Broody," the dwarf's words were playful, but there was a hint of steel in his voice. A warning Fenris knew would remain there for a long time. "Since all of this mess is your fault, elf, _you_ will be doing all the hard work."

Still holding Fenris' hand, Marian looked around the taproom, at all the blood, slime and scorched wood that surrounded them, and she smiled.

Everything was going to be all right now.


	14. Carver - Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the porn in this chapter is for my dear friend Broody.
> 
> I regret nothing.

The clinic door burst open and, with a clank of heavy armor, a templar rushed in. Thankful that he had extinguished the lantern a couple of hours ago, Anders reached for his staff and got ready for a fight. The templar was alone, however, a huge sword still at his back while he simply stood there, staring. The mage relaxed, putting the staff away with a sigh. 

"Close the door, you're scaring the rats."

Obediently, the intruder did as he was told then removed his helm at last.

"I got a message from Marian, that you all fought that mage, but she never wrote anything about you, I didn't know if you were all right and I…"

Smiling softly, Anders approached the young man and sealed his lips with a soft kiss. 

"You talk too much."

Carver was trembling. It took him a long while to dare a careful glance up at Anders, but when he finally had… his breath hitched at the look on the apostate’s handsome face. 

“Well, ser templar, I thought you were helping me because of your sister, but…”

Long fingers found their way into Carver’s hair, simply caressing the thick hair for a moment, then tangling themselves in it and tugging, hard enough to force the young man onto his knees on the dusty floor.

“But now I see that you had other reasons,” Anders went on, letting his hand slide to Carver’s chin to hold it up and maintain the eyecontact between them. “Oh yes, I can see that quite clearly now.”

The templar cursed inwardly, feeling a treacherous blush creeping up to his cheeks. He tried to turn his gaze away, to get himself together, up from this humiliating position, out of the stinking clinic, and— 

“Tell me, Carver, is it the desire to have a mage submit to you? To play the dirty templar and chained apostate game? Because if that is what I see burning in your eyes, you will be sorely disappointed, for I **do not** submit.”

The younger Hawke took a deep, shuddering breath and licked his dry lips. 

“No.”

Anders’ eyes held him captive, mercilessly scrutinizing, boring into him, seeking something that was not there, not anymore, not after Carver had witnessed all the horrible acts of cruelty done to the mages in the Gallows. 

“Is that so?” The healer’s voice was still cold as ice, there was also a barely audible hint of Justice’s booming tone in it that made Carver wince slightly. “Oh, you are not afraid of me, are you, little templar?”

“No.”

“Prove it.”

With still trembling hands, the young man reached for Anders’ robe and, starting at the hem, clumsily unfastened the first few clasps of the overly complicated outfit. When the mage did not speak or interrupt him in any other way, he took a deep breath and pulled at the laces of the apostate’s breeches, eventually setting his already semi-hard cock free. 

“I am not afraid of you.”

The first tentative touch of his fingertips against Anders’ pale skin earned him a muffled gasp and a slightly impatient tug at his hair. 

“You fight for your cause, even though you are alone in this,” Carver said, resting his hands on the healer’s hips and pushing himself away a bit. Smirking, he looked up to enjoy a flicker of sheer want twisting the older man’s features briefly. “One apostate against the world of templars. Yet you don’t give up. I have always been alone, too. One warrior in the house of mages, fighting against the world for their safety. I haven’t given up either. No matter the cost.”

Anders brushed his thumb against Carver’s cheek in a surprisingly gentle, comforting gesture, and Carver immediately knew that - unlike his own sister - the mage had understood. The whiskey eyes softened, and a slight smirk crept to the otherwise pouty lips. 

“My personal templar protector, then?”

“Yes,” Carver replied simply, putting all his might into the single word. Then, closing his eyes, he lunged forward, sucking the mage’s cock nearly balls-deep into his mouth. 

Anders let out an almost pained moan as a full body shiver made his knees buckle under him. Carver could only admire the man’s self restraint when he kept himself standing through the initial shock. Digging his fingers deep into the apostate’s hips, he greedily pulled him even closer, letting his tongue work the magic on the rapidly hardening flesh, brushing against it, swirling, teasing and caressing until he was fully hard. 

“You sure know what you are doing.” Ander’s voice was no more than a strangled whisper when his hand cradled the back of the templar’s head, holding it in place while he took the time to regain some control over himself. “Maker, it’s been too long…”

Carver waited patiently, pointedly ignoring the numbness slowly spreading from his knees. He kept sucking on Anders, lazily learning his texture and taste, and - to his own surprise - finding it immensely relaxing and enjoyable, much more so than the quick trysts in the chilly corridors of the Gallows. 

He had always considered himself well versed in the art of sex, but this… this he wanted to be perfect. He had imagined this moment countless times, sprawled on the uncomfortable cot in the small damp room he shared with two other templars, in perfect silence tugging at his erect cock in the dark, stressing and worrying himself sick, because he wanted to impress this mage, to show off, to be the best, unforgettable, mind-blowing…

With a soft gasp, Anders began to rock his hips against him at last, tentatively at first, as if still unsure he could prevent himself from going over the edge right then and there. Carver eagerly complied, but once the healer had reached a steady, though unhurried rhythm, he slid his palms to the other man’s ass, kneading and clawing at the flesh through the threadbare fabric of the breeches until he elicited another moan from the mage.

There was a slight stutter in the otherwise steady movement, but the apostate composed himself quickly, his hand joining the other at the nape of Carver’s neck to keep control of the tempo. The young man smirked and hummed, the low vibrations in his throat sending a jolt of pleasure through Anders and rewarding him with a wild growl.

“So… that’s how you want to play, my templar?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“Oh, you clever thing…”

Carver was practically beaming. Keeping his eyes closed to enhance the experience, he let his fingers find their way inside the pants and between Anders’ buttocks to brush against his entrance. Once, twice, until the mage shuddered again and pulled himself out of his mouth. 

Everything after that moment happened in a blur of sloppy kisses, wandering hands, torn clothes, flesh-marking bites, wet tongues, and hot, heavy breaths mixing in the cool air of Darktown. Only when he had heard himself moaning loud like a cheap whore, did Carver realize that he was sitting on the very edge of the mage’s desk, a few pages of the manifesto sticking to his sweaty ass, and even more of them scrambled all over the floor around them. His legs were wound tightly around Anders’ waist while the apostate was pounding wildly into him, beads of sweat glistening on his bare chest in a way that made the templar want to lick them off the surprisingly smooth skin.

“Anders…”

The only answer he got was a jolt of electricity rushing along his muscles, making him gasp and throw his head backwards with another shameless moan. The sensation was so overwhelming, the pleasure so intense, that he could barely contain it. His fingers clutched at the rough wood of the desk, and Carver could only give in again, eyes tightly shut, mouth open wide as he waited for the tidal wave of release to wash over him at last.

He couldn’t tell what had made him open his eyes again; perhaps it was the scent of magic in the air, or the sudden coldness of Anders’ palm against his chest, but when Carver did look at the mage, he failed to contain a startled cry. 

The apostate’s eyes were still fixed on him, wide open, staring intently and… burning with the Fade glow. Anders' pale skin was now covered with an intricate net of blue lines, glowing intensely, chilling the young templar to the bone.

“I WISH TO FINISH WHAT ANDERS HAS STARTED.”

Hearing Justice’s hollow, detached voice, Carver shivered and struggled to look away. Knowing that there was a spirit living inside the healer was one thing, but having a threesome with it might just be too much… He let his legs drop and dangle loosely off the desk’s edge, then shifted in an attempt to untangle himself from around the suddenly alien body. The cold hands held him firmly in place, however, their bodies still joined and faces just a breath away from each other.

“ALLOW ME TO EXPERIENCE THIS TE WAY YOU MORTALS DO. I WISH TO LEARN. FOR HIS SAKE.”

Carver took a deep breath, desperately trying to calm down. 

“DO NOT BE AFRAID OF ME, TEMPLAR. ANDERS UNDERSTANDS AND APPRECIATES YOUR PLIGHT, AND THUS I FIND YOU A VALUABLE ASSET TO MY CAUSE. I DO NOT WISH ANY HARM UPON YOU.”

Letting himself relax a little, Carver bit his lip and hesitantly slid his legs upwards, carefully wrapping them around Anders’ hips again. Then he nodded, just once.

“THANK YOU, YOUNG ONE. I SHALL STRIVE TO BE GENTLE.”

Unexpectedly, Carver found himself laughing at that. 

“Don’t be. If I am going to be fucked by a Fade spirit, I want it to be a thorough fuck.”

Anders’ lips stretched in a smile that was both cheerless and feral at the same time, the twin azure flames in his eyes twinkled.

“AS YOU WISH, MORTAL.”

**______________________________________________**

**THE END**


End file.
